


Memory of Future Dreams

by Saremina



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Galra Keith (Voltron), Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Temporary Character Death, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saremina/pseuds/Saremina
Summary: Keith falls, and ends up in a time where Altea exists, Daibazaal is still thriving, and Voltron has yet to be built. Getting back home seems like an impossibility, and the chance to change the future is both tempting and terrifying.And try as he might, Keith can't help but be drawn to Zarkon, who is so different from the Zarkon he knows. Just as Zarkon cannot help but be fascinated by the strange half-Galra who stumbled into his life without a warning.[on hiatus]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is a ship tag without a time travel AU?
> 
> This story is pretty much what it says on the tin, but this is written by me so things are never quite so simple as they may seem :)
> 
> I'm predicting this is gonna be around 15 to 20 chapters long, but we'll see. Also, this is dual POV alternating between Keith and Zarkon, with Keith being the main POV, though down the line there may be a bit or two from a third POV.
> 
> And this is not canon compliant. Anything past season 4 never happened because I started writing this before season 5 aired and beyond Keith's mom's name I don't intend to implement any new canon here. So Keith is still around 19 in this and there was never a Lotor/Voltron team up.
> 
> Enjoy!!

Keith is falling.

He's falling but he's not sure if he's going up or down. He's not sure if it's because he's drifting in and out of consciousness, or because he can't seem to focus on anything around him.

He can't tell what's real.

Maybe he's not falling at all. Maybe he got blasted in the fight against the Galra and he's actually drifting through space, and his friends are going to come get him soon.

Maybe he's dying.

It's not like he'd actually been shot into the bright tear in space they had tried to keep the Galra from getting to. That would be ridiculous.

So he’s either lost in space or dying. Or maybe he's in a coma and dreaming. Either way Kolivan is going to be mad at him when he gets back to the team for pulling such a risky stunt.

Keith might have smiled then, he can't tell. His eyes fall shut as the gravity around him seems to increase to nigh unbearable levels.

He's already unconscious when he hits the ground.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Keith becomes aware of is how cold he is. The Blade armor must have been damaged if he feels the environment this harshly.

The next thing Keith realizes is that he's sprawled on something soft and freezing. He opens his eyes, only to be met with a wide, barren, pink landscape and a green sky.

It takes him a moment to orient himself. His head is bounding, and when he touches his temple his gloved fingers come back with flecks of dried blood on them.

Figures.

Seeing no other option, Keith pushes himself up, slow and steady so he won't get vertigo. The pink stuff around him is a lot like snow, and his lips quirk up. If he fell the snow might have saved his life.

Keith tries to spot something that will tell him which way he should go, but there's nothing but wide, pink land to be seen. He sighs and picks a direction and starts walking.

Staying where he was might have been a valid option, but Keith doesn't have the patience for it, and there is always the chance that no one knows where he is so no one is coming for him. At least not soon enough for him to survive the cold and his injuries that he's starting to realize he's sustained as he begins moving.

His whole body aches, and the cold is not helping.

The snow is hard to move in, and Keith's legs tire sooner than he thought they would. He stumbles and falls, but he pushes himself back up and continues on his way, biting his lip and steeling himself against the wind that blows through the wide open land.

He's not going to die there.

He's not.

A shadow in the distance catches his attention, and he trudges towards it as fast as he can, hoping it's either a landmark or maybe even a building of some kind.

It takes him longer than he assumed it would to reach the shadow that turns out to be a huge, shiny black and green rock. It's a landmark if anything else, and though Keith would have preferred a building, he takes what he can get. At least now he has a way of orienting himself when he continues on his way.

He heads left of the rock, leaving the brightly burning twin suns on his right, and walks in what he hopes is a straight line. He'd eat the snow for water if he thought it safe, but who knows what the snow is made of, and Keith would rather not kill himself by being an idiot.

The suns are beginning to set when Keith reaches the next rock formation, and he decides to rest in the cove, safe from the elements and the worst of the cold. He'd make a fire if he could, but as since he has no means to do that he curls into a tight ball and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

 

* * *

 

There's a gun pointed at Keith's face.

He's not sure how it got there, but it's there, and Keith reacts appropriately by pointing his blade at the heavily clothed aliens surrounding him.

They say something in a language Keith can't understand. It's odd enough that he doesn't notice the alien behind him until they grab his hair and yank, as if it’s enough to get Keith moving.

In retaliation Keith elbows the alien, but the other ones grab his arms to keep him still. They're strong. A lot stronger than Keith thought they'd be considering their relatively small statue.

They force Keith to his feet and drag him from the safety of the cove, Keith's aching and stiff body protesting to every movement.

The sky is tinged green with the rising suns, and the snow is shaded in reds and yellows, and Keith would appreciate the sight if one of the aliens didn't whack him over the head at that moment, knocking him out cold.

 

* * *

 

The aliens handcuff Keith and put him in a box, which is where he wakes up with a banging headache.

They are traveling, that much is obvious to Keith from the way the small, dark box rattles and shakes, but the only thing he can see is the pitch black of the box, and beyond the quiet chatter of the aliens who have kidnapped him, he can't hear a thing that would tell him anything about his whereabouts.

Minutes later the box shudders to a stop, then there's a sound, like scraping metal, and the box tilts violently to the right.

Keith yelps as he falls from the box onto a hard stone floor, and he scrambles to his knees as fast as he can with his hands still tied behind his back.

The aliens pull down the metal door, and it locks with a heavy thud.

Keith lets out a frustrated growl before looking at his cage. It's triangle shaped, and one of the walls is made of transparent, glass like material looking into a dark corridor. Keith kicks it as hard as he can, but it does nothing but send a sharp shock of pain up his leg.

Every inch of his body feels bruised, but at least he's starting to think he hasn't broken any bones.

There's a small, thin mattress like cushion pushed to one corner, and a bowl of water, but nothing else.

Keith glares at the bowl and considers kicking it over, but he needs the water. His mouth and throat are dry as sandpaper, and his headache isn't just from the hit he took.

Swallowing his dignity, Keith kneels by the bowls and drinks.

 

* * *

 

Since he'd fallen asleep Keith doesn't know how long he's been trapped in the cell by the time a guard pokes him with a long stick like staff. Keith blinks the sleep from his eyes, and glares at the guard who woke him up.

They are bulky, with heavy leather looking armor covering them, and their thin, pale blue face has a small nose and a long mouth that doesn't look like it fits with its heavy underbite. Their eyes are large and jet black, and they have short, scaly feathers sticking from their head. They say something in a raspy voice, and Keith assumes it's a command for him to move.

His assumption is proven right when the guard steps back and through the low opening when Keith pushes himself to his knees. Keith follows them, hoping to figure out where he is and what's going on.

The guard walks Keith through the dim hallway, then through a freezing courtyard. Or at least Keith thinks it's a courtyard. He can't be sure.

They go through a backdoor of sorts, and the guard pokes Keith with their staff to get him to move faster when he slows down to take in the dull stone walls.

Keith throws a dirty glare over his shoulder, but walks a little faster.

The guard takes Keith to a dining hall with an arched ceiling and no windows. Instead the walls are decorated with lamps and tapestry made of color splashes rather than any imagery or patterns Keith can decipher.

In the middle of the room there is a large triangle table with bowls upon bowls of food and a lone patron in heavy pale yellow cape and a big, sharp pointed golden hat with stones that look almost like ice shards decorating it. Their attention is on the plate in front of them, and Keith assumes they're some kind of a leader.

The guard shoves Keith to the table and holds him in front of the leader, who is still ignoring them in favor of filling their plate with the mushed food in the bowls.

After a long minute the leader turns to study Keith with calculative eyes, and says something in the language Keith doesn't understand. Keith bites his tongue and says nothing. The man widens their eyes and speaks again, and this time Keith catches the word Galra.

It takes him a second to realize why the Galra of all things would be something brought up.

He had been on a mission for the Blade moments before he'd had to rush to help Voltron, despite Kolivan’s protests. He'd been undercover, or as much undercover as he could get. Krolia — mother — had worked with the few scientists the Blade had and Coran to make Keith appear a little more Galran so that he could actually pull off his assigned mission.

Krolia — _mother_ — had hated it. She'd argued with Kolivan and told Keith he didn't have to accept the mission, but Keith had been adamant. He had needed the space and time the mission offered for him to process everything that was going on in his life.

Maybe Kolivan had sensed his unease of being around Krolia — his _mother_ — and offered it to him instead of the dozen or so agents who could have pulled the mission off easier and faster. But Keith had needed some distance so much he had been ready to call in vacation days the Blade didn’t offer but he needed, and an undercover mission was better than going back to the Castle ship where he didn't feel he belonged anymore.

Even Shiro had gotten colder.

Keith glances at his uniform and remembers his now pointed ears and the soft purple shade of his skin, and the yellow scleras of his eyes. At least he'd gotten to keep his irises, even if one of the Blade scientists had wanted to make him seem as Galran as they could.

The leader motions at Keith, and the guard forces him to bow forward so that the leader can poke at his face with their spoon. They say something to the guard, who yanks Keith back and drags him out of the room, and back to his cell.

Keith bangs his head against the wall and curses his luck.

What if they call the Galra Empire to come and get him?

What if he's being held prisoner by people who consider the Galra an enemy?

 

* * *

 

Keith gets fed and bathed, his injuries get a brief look and bandages if they’re deemed severe enough to need them, and he gets a new set of clothes to wear. His new clothes are bland brown, with baggy pants and a form fitting shirt that covers him from neck to the back of his hands. They're not the most comfortable clothes Keith has ever worn, but at least they're warm.

The aliens who had captured him feed him twice a day, and the food is greasy and thick, but it keeps him from feeling hungry, even if it leaves a horrible taste in his mouth.

Four days later Keith gets another bath and a clean set of clothes, but instead of taking him back to his cell the guard assigned to him escorts him to a large hall that for some reason makes Keith think of the gym in his old school. There are other prisoners there, all dressed like Keith and all different races doing everything from stretching to gymnastics to dancing.

One of the prisoners approaches Keith while the guard uncuffs his wrists and shoves him forward. The prisoner is a small, petite looking woman with pale green skin and large, dark, unblinking eyes. She's covered in soft, thin feathers that change color as the light hits them, like a rainbow.

She beckons Keith closer with her long, claw-like fingers and tilts her head from side to side in stiff, stilted movements. Keith follows her, if only to get away from the guard.

She says something, but Keith can't understand her. He's speculated that the translator implants Kolivan had insisted he gets just in case must have broken when he fell, or maybe the pain in his neck was from being knocked out and having his translators removed. Those see to be the only explanations that make sense. What ever had happened, he feels lost without the translators.

The woman seems to realize Keith can't understand her, and she tilts her head from side to side a little faster.

Then she lets out an excited chirp and motions at her feet. Keith raises an eyebrow and looks down at them, and she seems satisfied with that. She does a series of steps, almost like dancing, and looks at Keith expectantly. Keith shrugs and lets his confusion show on his face. She does it again, and Keith gets the feeling he's supposed to repeat what she does.

He doesn't, even when her expression turns from expectant to concerned. She repeats the steps again, this time with more urgency, and Keith crosses his arms and shakes his head.

He's not doing it.

The shock of electricity coursing through his body comes as a surprise, and Keith can't suppress the pained grunt that escapes his lips.

He swirls around to glare at the guard who points his staff at him in warning. The woman by Keith's side grabs his arm and pulls, saying something in an urgent voice.

She wants him to repeat the dance, and apparently not doing so will get him shocked. So Keith repeats the dance to the best of his abilities. It's not a fight he thinks is worth having.

At least the woman teaching him is happy with him.

 

* * *

 

Keith learns that the woman's name is Nix'a, and that she's a good teacher. The language barrier keeps them from getting to know each other further.

As time passes the guards stop paying quite so much attention to Keith, and he plays along with their desire to see him dance until they're happy to let Keith out of their sight as soon as he enters the training hall.

Keith gets into a habit of asking Nix'a to show him what the other people are doing, and with a lot of hand waving and enthusiastic nodding, he gets her to teach him some things beyond her dances.

The guards are curious about it at first, but soon ignore it. Keith hopes they think he's becoming more enthusiastic about whatever it is they want him to do.

It takes time, but eventually Keith feels comfortable in trying to execute his plan.

He starts when the guards are changing shifts. The gates are unlocked then, for just a few minutes.

Keith waves at the bat-like alien balancing on a large ball, and grins and nods enthusiastically at Nix'a. She gets the idea, and though she's not entirely on board with it, she does what Keith expects her to do and heads to the small room where the equipment they are permitted to use during practice is kept.

Keith glances around, and meanders towards the gates. Once he's close enough — once he can't contain the anxiety bubbling inside him — he runs for it.

The guards yell when Keith bolts through the doors and books it down the corridor.

He needs shoes and a coat, food and water, and preferably a weapon.

The clothes are easy, even with the guards chasing after him. Keith has walked past the guards’ coatroom often enough to know that the guards rarely bother locking it. As he'd hoped the door isn't locked, and he pulls on the first pair of shoes that seem to be his size, not bothering to try other pairs even though the shoes squeeze his feet uncomfortably.

He picks the first coat that he can reach and pulls it on while he listens to the sounds outside the door. He stays hunched where he is until he can't hear the guards anymore, at which point he sneaks out of the coatroom and heads to the doors leading outside.

He'll get the food and water he needs from the main building of the compound. He just needs to sneak across the courtyard without being seen. Somehow he manages, and he even finds the kitchen without being spotted, though it's not easy.

He stuffs his pockets full of food he hopes won't get spoiled, and fills a square bottle with water before sneaking out of the kitchen.

The servant washing dishes offers him an encouraging smile as Keith passes her.

Keith sneaks and tiptoes through the corridors until a guard calls out, having spotted him, and he has to run again. He doesn't look where he's going, he only cares that he's getting away from the guards chasing him as fast as possible.

He rounds a corner so fast his feet slide, and he slams straight into a broad chest covered in armor.

Keith curses as he falls back from the force of the impact, and the strong pair of hands grabbing his arms is the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground.

Keith looks up, and any words he might have said die on his lips.

No.

It can't be.

There's no way...

 _Zarkon_.

If Zarkon was younger and didn't have purple eyes or a scar on his face. There's no way this person is Zarkon. It's just not possible.

Not-Zarkon blinks at Keith, and Keith blinks at him, their expressions mirror images of shocked surprise.

A guard calls out, and Keith snaps out of it. He tears himself free from Not-Zarkon's hold, and bolts down the corridor.

He doesn't reach the front gates before being tackled to the ground, tied up, and dragged back to the building the prisoners are housed in. Keith fights the guards the whole way, and when the guards stop and exchange words, clearly reaching some kind of a conclusion, he doubles his efforts.

The guards don't take him to his cell like he'd expected. Instead they drag him to a dirt floored, wide room with a single, metallic post in the middle of it. Keith gets stripped of his stolen clothes, then, after a moment of discussion, the guards take the rest of his clothes as well.

Keith isn't sure what they are planning, but when they drag him to the post and tie his hands to it, he protest loudly and as violently as he can.

One of the guards slam Keith's head to the post, and the disorientation silences him. The guard says something, but Keith doesn't understand them. He can guess they are telling him he's being punished for escaping and stealing, and ordering him not to do so again.

Keith doesn't think too much of it until he hears the click of metal. He glances over his shoulder, and all blood drains from his face when he sees what he's trying really hard not to call a whip, even if it’s the only thing it can be.

Someone barks an order Keith can't understand at him.

Keith closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath through his nose. He's not going to let the guards have the satisfaction of defeating him.

 

* * *

 

Crashing into a half-breed Galra was not something Zarkon had expected when he had agreed to accompany Alfor to the planet. He had not wanted to have anything to do with the Bryx, as they are a crude and uncivilized race at best.

No member of the Galra race should be there.

“Did you see something interesting?” Blaytz asks as he walks up to him.

Zarkon spares him a glance. “In a place like this?”

Blaytz looks around, pretending to consider it, to annoy or humor Zarkon, he cannot tell. “There might be surprises lurking around.”

Instead of answering, Zarkon heads to the Great Hall where Alfor is negotiating with the Bryx Leader, keeping his pace purposefully slow as to not pique Blaytz’s interest any further. He is in no mood to answer his questions or explain the situation to him until he has all the facts.

Blaytz trails after him, far less concerned about anything going on around them. Zarkon would not be surprised if Alfor had ordered him to keep an eye on him.

Still, Blaytz does nothing to stop Zarkon from entering the Great Hall, even if it was something Alfor had requested them to not do.

Alfor scowls when Zarkon enters, and the Bryx Leader bristles. Under any other circumstances it might have been an amusing sight.

“I'm not in trouble yet,” Alfor says, his light voice almost hiding his confusion and frustration at the interruption.

“You have a member of my people in your premises.” Zarkon ignores Alfor in favor of addressing the Bryx Leader directly. “I want him released into my custody immediately. And I am aware that you can understand me perfectly, the Altean translator has an extensive Galran dictionary.”

Both the Leader and Alfor are baffled by his words, Alfor more surprised, the Leader turning uncomfortable.

“The boy was caught trespassing on our land,” the Leader says eventually. “We are rightful in punishing him.”

“You have no rights over my people. Release him now or I will take action.” Zarkon takes a step closer to him, standing at his full height.

“Zarkon,” Alfor warns, his voice tight, but Zarkon pays him no mind.

Not when one of his people is being held by these... barbarians.

The Leader has the sense to shrink, and Zarkon narrows his eyes at him.

Alfor's hand on his chest stops him. “I will take care of this.” His gaze is stern when he meets Zarkon's eyes. “Trust me.”

“I am not leaving without him. He is my people,” Zarkon replies, keeping his tone hushed and sharp.

“I know.” Alfor pulls his hand back and tilts his head. “I know you won't. You wouldn't be you if you did. I will make sure he gets released into your custody.”

Zarkon glances at the Leader. “No harm will come to him.”

“Of course not,” the Leader replies, and something about his tone tells Zarkon it is a lie.

He glares at the Leader for a long dobash before turning around. “I would suggest you do not waste time. I find myself rather impatient today.”

He heads to the doors, directing one last pointed look at both Alfor and the Leader.

Blaytz pushes himself off the wall he had been leaning on when Zarkon enters the bland corridor. “Are you going to share what's going on?”

“I would like to ask for a favor,” Zarkon says as a reply.

Blaytz cocks his head down, a smile playing on his lips. “Do tell.”

Zarkon steps closer to him. “If Alfor leaves that room in the next fifteen dobashes, keep him busy.”

Blaytz's smile turns mischievous. “I can do that.”

Zarkon tilts his head and offers Blaytz a secretive smile before striding down the corridor. Blaytz stays where he is, ready to distract Alfor if need be.

 

* * *

 

It seems now that Zarkon's decision to insist they take his ship instead of Alfor's Castleship is going to pay off in more ways than one. Alfor had agreed only because the Castleship had been in need of maintenance, and he had not wanted to push it any further than necessary.

While Zarkon has no doubt Alfor will try to get the half-breed freed, he will insist on politics and talking, and that takes time. All Zarkon needs to do is to get the half-breed onto his ship, and no one will be able to take him back.

He contacts his ship and informs them that he is going to bring one of their people on board, and offers instructions on what he wants prepared for the arrival of their unexpected guest. A room and a meal, and most definitely a bath to get the stench of the Bryx settlement off his skin. As an afterthought he orders the staff to find a selection of clothes on the smaller side as well.

He is unsure if it is necessary, but he feels better having all things covered just in case.

Zarkon gives Alfor a chance to do things his way, though — in the name of friendship.

A varga to set things right. If it truly matters to Alfor as he would expect the Alteans to matter to Zarkon, he will not need more time. Meanwhile Zarkon takes the time to locate the half-breed and make sure he is not mistreated. It is the least he can do.

So Zarkon heads to what the Bryx refer to as worker housing, but he knows means anything from a place for prisoners to slaves of every kind.

No Galra should be in a place like this.

The floor is not well maintained, and the walls are barren of anything worth paying attention to. Zarkon puts a lifetime of training to use and does not grimace at his surroundings.

The smell of despair and defeat hang heavy in the air, and Zarkon fights back the natural urge to flatten his ears. The sound of a tired, pained scream carries over the corridors, and Zarkon walks faster. His jaw clenches when he smells the blood, and he knows a crack of a whip when he hears one.

He rounds the last corner and marches to the doors which do nothing to muffle the sounds coming from inside. He pushes them open and takes in the sight before him, anger flaring inside of him.

There are five guards, none of them properly armed to take on a Galra, let alone their Emperor. One of them — the one standing in the middle of the room — is wielding a whip, and going by the way they rotate their shoulder they are getting tired of it.

None of them have turned to face him yet.

And they are hurting the half-breed.

Zarkon throws his sword at the guard wielding the whip, and it pierces him with ease.

The other guards let out alarmed yells, but they balk at the sight of Zarkon and one by one they slink out of the doors without even considering avenging their fallen comrade.

Zarkon glares at them as they pass him.

As soon as the room clears he hurries forward. He picks his sword from the back of the dead guard as he strides to the half-breed, strapped to a post, naked and bleeding from the deep gashes webbing his back. There is fresh blood on the ground by his feet, and to Zarkon's disgust underneath it are darker patches of old, dried blood that the guards had not cleaned properly.

It makes Zarkon's blood boil. He should burn the place to the ground. He should destroy the entire settlement and force the Bryx to run for their lives. It would teach them not to do something so degrading to a Galra, half-breed or not.

To be courteous, Zarkon removes his cape and drapes it over the half-breed before circling the post and taking a closer look of the cuffs holding him up.

The half-breed lets out a wet, pained whimper, and Zarkon spares him a glance. “I will take you to my ship. The Bryx will not get to you there.”

The half-breed — barely more than an adolescent — whimpers again, and Zarkon releases his wrists from the chains. He grabs them before the half-breed can fall, and inspects them, careful to keep his touch light. They seem damaged, perhaps broken.

There is nothing Zarkon can do about it, though, so he leans down so that he can look the half-breed in the eye. “Put your arms around me and I will carry you.”

Zarkon does not delude himself by thinking that the half-breed can walk. He is barely conscious as it is, but at least he follows orders, though Zarkon must guide his arms as he seems incapable of lifting them himself.

Zarkon wraps the cape around the lithe body before lifting him, doing his best not to touch the injured back too much.

The half-breed falls unconscious before Zarkon gets him out of the doors.

 

* * *

 

The officers on board the ship have already arranged a room for the half-breed, but one look of him and the severe frown on Zarkon's face sends the officers calling for the healers.

Zarkon heads straight to the medical bay, and by the time he gets there the healers have set up a bed for the half-breed. Zarkon deposits him on it before stepping aside to let the healers do their work.

He will have to deal with Alfor next, most likely soon, but the thought is distant and seems unimportant in comparison to the pain the half-breed has gone through in such a short amount of time. He had been out of Zarkon’s sight for less than a varga.

The healers offer him his cape back, and usually Zarkon would not accept it in its state, but showing it to Alfor might make him understand the situation better.

“Will you be able to treat him?” Zarkon asks as he folds the cape.

“Yes. But he will scar,” Vanek replies without removing his attention from his patient.

Zarkon observes them for a moment longer before a young lieutenant clears her throat behind him. Zarkon turns, watching her shift her weight from one foot to another.

She must be new.

Seeing she has her Emperor's attention, she stands straighter, clasping her hands behind her back. “King Alfor requests your presence.”

Zarkon had expected it, and he strides out of the medical bay, but he does not get further than the hallway before Alfor calls his name.

“I had it handled.” Alfor stomps towards Zarkon, an angry frown marring his face. Blaytz follows a few steps behind, far less concerned with the situation than Alfor. He stops and leans on the wall, keeping a safe distance from Alfor and Zarkon and simply observing them.

“They were torturing him,” Zarkon counters as Alfor stops in front of him. “I could not allow that to continue.”

“I think you could have dealt with it without killing anyone.” Alfor places his hand on his hips, planting his feet on the ground and frowning disapprovingly.

“Not when they were trying to skin one of my people with a whip.”

Alfor glances at the cape still in Zarkon's hands, and his eyes widen minutely before he schools his expression to be more neutral, the frown disappearing from his face and crosses his arms. “Still. Murder is not the answer to everything.”

Zarkon scowls, his ears twitching down against his will. “I do not appreciate being criticized for protecting one of my own.”

“I'm not criticizing your protectiveness. Just how you go about it,” Alfor replies, lifting his hands.

Zarkon pulls himself to his full height, forcing Alfor to crane his neck if he wishes to maintain their eye contact. “That child may be a half-breed but that does not mean we should allow him to be tortured by those primitive _gazog_. He is better than them by blood alone and they should have treated him accordingly.”

Alfor huffs. “I'm impressed by your ability to insult and compliment someone in one go. And please, you know I don't like it when you call mixed species people derogatory terms.”

Zarkon inclines his head. It is not that he had forgotten about it, he has merely been too upset to take Alfor’s feelings into consideration.

Alfor sighs and lets his arms drop to his sides. “The Bryx Leader wants the half-Galra back as payment for the dead guard.”

“Out of the question,” Zarkon snaps. “And if you even imply that I am in the wrong I will personally remove you from this vessel and leave you on that planet to freeze to death.”

Alfor lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and shakes his head, a hint of a smile grazing his lips. “I wasn't going to suggest anything like that. But there is an issue here that I cannot leave undealt. I will have to try to placate the Bryx before they do something rash. I just... What in the Laia's name made you act before even giving me a chance?”

Zarkon’s ears twitch down against his will, and his jaw clenches.

“Is he attractive?” Blaytz asks before Zarkon can tell Alfor that his reasons are not something he has a right to question.

Both Alfor and Zarkon turn their attention to Blaytz, similar confused expressions on their faces.

Blaytz smiles and tilts his head. “Attractive. Pretty, beautiful, captivating, has the most stunning bone structure you've ever seen?”

Zarkon's eyes widen, and Blaytz's expression turns amused. Even Alfor turns to Zarkon and lifts a teasingly questioning eyebrow.

True, Zarkon had noted that the half-breed was not entirely displeasing to look at when he had slammed into him, with those large eyes and pale, furless skin, and the unusual hair, both in color and style. He does have a pleasing bone structure as well, and Zarkon would be remiss not to admit it.

Just not to his friends. Not when they were looking at him like something incredibly amusing is going on. Gyrgan once laughed and said they were merely teasing him, but that did not mean Zarkon had to tolerate it.

“I did not take notice of his physical attributes beyond him being part Galra,” he says, a little too fast going by the glance Blaytz and Alfor share. “Need I remind you that he has been tortured, and considering his attractiveness while he is in pain would be tactless and quite frankly cruel.”

Blaytz shrugs, but it doesn’t hide the shame flashing across his face. “Doesn't mean you didn't find him attractive when you first saw him.”

Zarkon stares at him, then turns on his heels. “This conversation is over. I have more important obligations to attend to and you are clearly not interested in being reasonable.”

The sound of Alfor and Blaytz's laughter follows him all the way down the hallway and into the elevator.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up, groggy and disoriented, and his back throbbing with dull pain. And he can't move his wrists.

He's lying on his stomach on something not quite soft, but not hard either, and he thinks his hair has been tied up.

He blinks his eyes open slowly to give himself a chance to adjust to the light. There's a bed — an examination table, really — about six feet from him. It's made of metal, and unlike the bed Keith is on, it doesn't have a mattress of any kind on it. There are monitors and shiny metal tables with instruments and bottles and jars, on them.

Keith frowns. His eyes catch the gauze rolls, and he thinks he might be in a hospital of some kind. A glance at his bandaged wrists only strengthen his suspicion.

He groans and pushes himself up to his elbows, hissing at the pain that flares through his back.

“ _Zi drikza wayra_.”

Keith frowns and turns his head, only to get pressed down on the bed again by a hand on his neck.

“ _Zi drikza wayra_.”

Keith looks over his shoulder, and his face falls when he sees the Galra pressing him down on the bed. Half of his face is covered by a mask, and the rest of him is covered in a uniform of some kind, made of heavy dark fabric and leather.

The Galra wants Keith to stay down, that much is clear, and Keith forces his muscles to relax. The Galra removes his hand and walks away.

Keith looks after him, confused and worried, and a little scared of what is going on. He wouldn't want to be in a Galra hospital when he's healthy, and he definitely doesn't want to be with there when he's injured.

And why can't he understand them?

The people who held him prisoner before, sure, he can understand that. Maybe the Lions, Galra or Alteans had never come across them, so neither Red or either of the translator implants Keith had been gifted by Kolivan didn't work, but he has always understood the Galran language.

It doesn't make sense. In a way it's scarier than being in what is clearly a Galra facility.

Still, they are treating Keith, and he is injured, and as long as he isn't being mistreated he might as well take advantage of the care they are offering him. Perhaps they mistake him for one of their own due to his Galran appearance.

There's a monitor above the bed Keith is on, and he wonders if the Galra can see his anxiety on it.

He chews his lip and stares at the room without paying much attention to what he sees. He thinks he's been drugged. His back would be more painful if he wasn't, as would his wrists.

A door opens somewhere behind Keith, and he turns his head, careful not to agitate his back.

The person who stepped through the door sticks out among the Galra. Even ignoring his blue skin, he looks like he'd be more comfortable near an ocean instead of a Galra facility. His eyes meet Keith's and he smiles warmly as he heads to him.

Keith doesn't know how to feel about him, so he stays wary when the man stops by his bedside. He says something, his voice pleasant and melodic.

Keith frowns.

Slowly, the man's smile fades and he falls silent. Confusion colors his face, and Keith lifts an eyebrow.

The man sighs and waves his hand at Keith before heading to the Galra who had ordered Keith not to move. They talk, and the man waves his hand in Keith's direction. The Galra inclines his head and walks to a computer, and the man returns to Keith's side.

He offers Keith a comforting smile and lifts his hand as if to touch Keith's shoulder, but after a glance at Keith's back he thinks better of it. The man hesitates, then pats Keith's hand gently and hastily before crossing his arms.

His eyes drift around the hospital room, only stopping on Keith occasionally, and he always offers Keith a small, reassuring smile, until the door opens minutes later.

Keith's mouth goes dry at the sight of the person who cannot be Zarkon. He can't. There's no way he is Zarkon.

That would be the worst possible thing that could happen.

Not-Zarkon walks up to Keith, tweaking the white orb in his hands until the gray line running around it turns light blue. He stops by the bed and directs his attention to Keith, and after looking him up and down he says a long litany of words Keith knows he should understand.

When Keith does nothing but blink his too wide eyes at Not-Zarkon, he and the man next to him share a puzzled look. Not-Zarkon shoves the sphere at Keith's face, and when Keith does nothing but stare at it he waves it at Keith's face.

“ _Zi laki.”_

Keith glances at Not-Zarkon's face. He thinks he's supposed to talk.

He may as well try. “Um. I... I fell through a rift, I think. I don't know why I can't understand anyone. I don't know how long I've been here and I don't know how to get back home. I've been forced to learn stupid dances and I've been kept in a cell and whipped within an inch of my life, and I just want to go home. So unless you can help me figure out what's going on I don't know why we're even talking. And —“

“ _Tsohi_.”

Keith falls silent, and frowns when one of a Galra doctor joins them, and shows Keith a picture of a planet on his pad.

Keith glances at the trio by his bedside. “A planet?”

The doctor changes the image to a tree, and Keith tells him what he sees again. It goes on for a minute or so, and afterwards everyone leaves Keith's bedside.

He can't wrap his brain around it. There is no logical explanation to why he can't understand anyone, or why there is someone who looks so much like Zarkon. Even his armor is so similar to Zarkon's, though the color is brighter red with golden yellow and dark silver details, and Keith knows it in his bones that this person will not be a danger to him.

Keith thinks he might have even saved him, unless his memory is playing tricks on him.

Maybe he's fallen into an alternative reality. Maybe that really is Zarkon, but a nicer version of him, like the evil Alteans they had faced when they had gone through the rift before. Who knows where the rift spat him out.

He could be anywhere.

Maybe-Zarkon and his friend talk with the Galra Doctor, and hand the sphere to him. The doctor moves to his computer for a minute or two, then picks up several instruments and puts them on a table with wheels on its back legs, and soon all three of them return to Keith's side, with the doctor pushing the table around the bed.

The doctor grabs a gentle hold of Keith's head and presses it down, forcing him to bare his neck, and Keith thrashes against his hold.

“ _Zi atosh sala_.” Maybe-Zarkon grabs Keith's hand and sits on the chair the non-Galran man fetches for him. Keith swallows, but the touch keeps him grounded while the doctor applies something cold and wet on his neck.

Maybe-Zarkon squeezes Keith's hand, and points at the doctor with his free hand. “Vanek.”

Keith blinks, realizing Maybe-Zarkon is telling him the doctor's name. He points at the man by his side next. “Blaytz.”

Wait. No.

Hadn't that been the name of the original Blue Paladin? Keith can't believe it.

He is definitely not in his own reality anymore. Come to think of it, the sphere they had made Keith talk into earlier had looked a bit Altean.

Maybe Keith isn't in another reality. Maybe he didn't fall through space. Maybe he should be asking what _time_ he's in. Because if this is Zarkon, and that is the same Blaytz who pilots the Blue Lion, and they have Altean technology then...

Keith's attention zeroes in on those too red eyes. He can't be... He cannot be...

“Zarkon.”

The world seems to disappear from under Keith, and he barely sees the person who is definitely _Zarkon_ point at him, a friendly and questioning look on his face.

Keith licks his lips. “Keith,” he says, his voice quiet and distant.

“Keith,” Zarkon repeats, like he's trying it out and Keith nods minutely.

The doctor — Vanek — injects Keith's neck with something, but Keith doesn't have it in him to care.

This is _Zarkon, m_ aybe Zarkon from an alternative reality or from the past, but this is still Zarkon, smiling at him and holding his hand, trying to comfort him.

Vanek turns Keith's head, and Keith tenses, but he doesn't fight. Zarkon squeezes his hand and reaches out to pet Keith's hair, and Keith lets out a shuddering breath, but he relaxes, albeit slowly.

Vanek injects him again, and soon Keith's neck and thee back of his head turn tingly, then numb.

Blaytz says something in Galran, his accent thick, and Keith has heard enough insults in his life to know that whatever Zarkon says as a reply isn't exactly kind, but Blaytz laughs, so it can't be too bad either.

The pressure on Keith's neck lets him know Vanek is injecting yet another needle through his skin, but he can barely feel it and he has other things in his mind. A needle in his neck is the least of his worries at the moment.

Vanek arranges Keith's head again, and presses another needle into his neck, and Keith clings to Zarkon's hand a little tighter.

He has to bite back a hysterical bark of laughter.

He's using _Zarkon_ for emotional support. It makes no sense. It shouldn't be something that happens. Zarkon is his enemy, not someone who holds his hand when he's scared.

Except this is not the Zarkon from his reality. This is Zarkon from either the past or an alternative reality where he's clearly not some quintessence fueled monster.

The table clanks when Vanek drops his instrument on it, and he picks up a tablet like device that he taps a few times.

“Keith?” Zarkon pulls at Keith's hand, and Keith turns to face him, his neck still numb. “ _Zi kai yadyin_.”

Keith frowns, and Zarkon seems frustrated for a millisecond, his attention snapping to Vanek. Blaytz says something in that strange melodic language and Zarkon's expression turns appalled before he turns to scowl at him.

The argument they start catches Keith off guard, and an incredulous smile spreads on his face against his will. It's so normal. He never thought he'd see Zarkon do something as normal as arguing with a friend about something that can't be important.

“— and you're just afraid to admit it.” Blaytz finishes, and Keith blinks.

He can understand people again.

“I do not think you have ever been quite so wrong in your life,” Zarkon retorts, and Keith grins.

“I don't know what you're talking about but I hope he's right,” Keith says, pointing at Blaytz as well as he can without moving his wrist. He must be more drugged out than he thought, otherwise he would have said something smarter.

Both Zarkon and Blaytz fall silent and turn their surprised eyes to Keith.

Blaytz is the first one to recover, and he spreads his arms, a bright smile on his face. “We have communication! Great.”

“Why would you want him to be right?” Zarkon asks.

Keith shrugs.

Zarkon finally pulls his hand from Keith's hold. “Need I remind you I saved your life. And I am your Emperor.”

“Slow down. No need to get snippy with the kid just because he has the good sense to poke a little fun at you.” Blaytz flashes a smile at Keith.

“He could be charged with treason,” Zarkon tells Blaytz, and Keith's face twists in confusion.

Blaytz laughs. “Now you are exaggerating.” He turns to Keith. “He can't charge you with treason. Or at least he won't.”

Keith doesn't have a reply to them, so he stays silent.

He could tell Zarkon he's not Keith's Emperor, that he never will be Keith's Emperor, but this is not the Zarkon of his reality, and it will do Keith no good to make an enemy of him. At least not yet.

Blaytz glances between Keith and Zarkon, and takes a step back. “I think I'll stop by the mess hall now.”

He retreats to the door, and hurries out of it before Zarkon can tell him not to.

Keith watches him go, and when he's out of his sight, Keith turns his eyes to Zarkon. Who still looks... _off_ — wrong, somehow.

Zarkon takes in a slow breath and stands. “You will remain here under the care of the healers until we reach Daibazaal, at which point you will either be moved to a medical facility there, or, if your wounds have healed sufficiently, you will be found housing.”

Not knowing what else to do, Keith nods.

Zarkon straightens up and tilts his head, his expression softening minutely. “Try to rest.”

Keith nods again, and watches Zarkon head to the door.

 

* * *

 

Alfor remains with the Bryx for one more day, and when he returns he is tired, but not defeated. “I'll get them to cooperate,” he says, but when Zarkon asks if they may leave, he does not say no.

“I hear you had a language barrier with your new guest,” Alfor says as he slumps on the couch, a grimace passing his face as he shifts to get into a better position. It is the softness of the cushions, or so he says.

“He lacked translator implants, and he did not understand Galran,” Zarkon admits. “It is strange to say the least, but he spoke in a language we have never encountered, so perhaps it is possible he was never taught our language.”

Alfor frowns and hums. “It would be interesting to know how he came to be here. Do you mind if I look into that?”

Zarkon lifts an eyebrow, a smile grazing his lips. “You want my permission?”

Alfor smiles. “Of course.”

“Then allow him to heal first. He has been severely injured, and he seemed... not entirely comfortable being here.” Zarkon taps a claw against his tea cup, the soft clink of it filling the silence. “I did not save him because I consider him attractive.”

Alfor huffs a laugh, but it's friendly so Zarkon merely narrows his eyes at him. “I know that, and Blaytz knows that too. He's just making fun of you.”

“I am aware of that,” Zarkon replies, perhaps too harshly.

But Alfor merely smiles. “It would do you good to learn not to take everything so seriously. You should try to relax and open up.”

Zarkon scowls. “My behavior does not need adjusting.”

Alfor's smile fades. “You have friends who care for you. You could try trusting them.”

Zarkon sets his barely touched tea down and stands. “I believe I am needed on the bridge.”

He heads to the door despite Alfor's protestations.

“Zarkon.” The shift in Alfor's tone is the only reason Zarkon stops and turns to him. “Do you mind if I stop by to see — what was his name — Keith?”

Zarkon tilt his head. “Do as you please, but remember he is not your people. You have no right to interrogate him.”

Alfor stands and bows his head in an unusual sign of respect. “Of course.”

Zarkon straightens his back and inclines his head before walking out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Keith dozes off, only to be jolted awake when the small table by his bedside clatters. He blinks blearily, narrowing his eyes at the teacup on the table.

“Hello.”

Keith shifts his attention from the cup to the man seating himself on the chair Zarkon had left behind, and he has to make an effort not to let his face fall.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, but he is.

“My name is Alfor. I was hoping you would be willing to talk.”

Keith opens and closes his mouth. “Sure?”

Alfor smiles and leans back. “Great! Now, I'm sure you understand why I'm curious, but how come you cannot understand Galran? It is highly unusual, to say the least.”

Keith bites his lip, wondering what he can say. What if he's in the past and he says something that will break the timeline? “I didn't grow up around Galra,” he says eventually, hoping it's enough.

Alfor smiles and nods, but there's something about him that tells Keith he knows Keith is keeping things from him. “How did you end up in a Bryx settlement? They said you entered their perimeters without permission.”

“I... I'm not sure. I woke up in the snow and I just started walking, and they found me and imprisoned me, and they forced me to learn this stupid dance. And they took my blade. It's all I have left of my mother.” Keith snaps his mouth shut and scolds himself for saying so much, drugged or not.

He needs to be more careful, at least until he has a better idea of what's going on.

Alfor tilts his head, his expression sympathetic. “My people have recently opened negotiations with them and assuming that our dear Emperor Zarkon has not completely destroyed the progress we have made I should be able to retrieve your blade and get it back to you.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, meaning it.

He wonders if Allura has been born yet. He doesn't ask, mostly because he has no idea how to.

“What's the last thing you remember before waking up in the snow?” Alfor asks, dragging Keith from his thoughts.

Keith bites his tongue and wonders what he can say. Not that he's from the future, that's for sure, but perhaps admitting to having come through a rift might be helpful in getting back home. “There was a... tear in space. I woke up on that planet. I don't know what happened.”

Alfor leans forward, curiosity clear on his face. “You fell through a rift? I didn't think that was possible.”

Keith frowns. “You know about them?”

“Yes. Micro-rifts are not unheard of, but they are usually unstable and appear for a tick or two at most, so studying them isn’tt easy. For you to have fallen through one is nothing short of a miracle.” Alfor's eyes gleam with excitement, and Keith breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

He was right to tell Alfor about the rift. There's just one thing he needs to know. “Can you get me back home?”

The excitement disappears from Alfor's eyes, turning into sadness. “I am truly sorry, but no. Not yet. Our knowledge of the rifts isn't extensive enough at this time.”

Keith nods. At least he tried, and now he can cross that off the list of possible ways of getting back home.

“One more thing, you didn't have translator implants,” Alfor says, the question as to why hanging in the air.

Keith takes in a deep breath, thinking about it for a moment. “I think the... uh — “

“Bryx.”

“ — they cut them out while I was unconscious.”

“That is unfortunate, but luckily the Galra medical facilities are more advanced and well equipped than they look.” Alfor's brow knits together and he nods towards Keith's back. “I do regret allowing Zarkon to talk me into letting him take care of the transport. If we had the Castleship, you wouldn’t scar, and you would be more or less healed by now.”

Keith frowns. “I'm just glad to be out of that place.”

It's not that he wouldn't prefer not to scar, but there's something about wat Alfor said — the way he said it —  that rubs him the wrong way. Keith has grown to appreciate and even like the Galra during his time with the Blade of Marmora, and he doesn't appreciate it.

Especially when these are Galra from either the past or an alternative reality, and they are innocent of the atrocities of Keith's reality.

“Of course.” Alfor bows his head. “And I think I need to be going now. I should make sure Zarkon remembers to drop me off at my next destination.”

Alfor pushes himself up and Keith wiggles his fingers as goodbye. Alfor smiles, curious and a little confused, and lifts his hand and mimics the motion before leaving Keith's bedside.

A little while later Vanek brings Keith soup that he has to eat through a straw since Vanek refuses to let Keith sit up just yet.

 

* * *

 

It should not surprise Zarkon that Alfor insists he house the half-breed — Keith — in the Palace.

“He fell through a rift! That is unheard of. You cannot just put him into some housing complex. You have to keep him close.” Alfor practically vibrates with excited energy.

Zarkon sighs, letting Alfor see his tiredness just for a tick. “I cannot simply house a half-Galra in the Palace.”

Alfor waves his hand dismissively. “Then hire him. You have a lot of staff, surely there is room for one more.”

Zarkon scowls. “No half-Galra has ever served in the imperial staff.”

“There's a first time for everything,” Alfor counters, and Zarkon considers shooting him out of an airlock.

Blaytz would never let him hear the end of it, so he abandons the idea.

“I will take it under consideration,” Zarkon offers, his voice tense. The bright grin Alfor offers him alleviates his mood a little more than he would like to admit.

Zarkon does not offer Alfor a definitive answer on the matter even when he drops him and Blaytz off at Trigel's doorstep. Even if he has made up his mind, Alfor does not need to know about it.

His mother will send a sand storm to torment him for it, but Zarkon supposes that someone who has done the impossible and traveled through a rift deserves special accommodations. He could hide Keith by assigning him to the day shift of the cleaning crew.

It would keep him out of prying eyes while he earns his keep.

Zarkon takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He will regret this, he knows it, and no amount of happy smiles from Alfor will change that.

He enters the bridge and lets his eyes scan the crew waiting for his order, and he is more than happy to give it to them. “Set course for Daibazaal.”

Zarkon takes his place at the center, none of his tenseness showing in his pose, but it is still there. He fights back a minute frown, the faint beginnings of a headache thrumming behind his eyes already.

Keith better be worth the trouble he is bringing into Zarkon's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first chapter. Things get cheerier and fluffier from here on out, don't worry.
> 
> I'll be starting work next week so update are going to be limited to weekends. I do have a [tumblr](https://saremina.tumblr.com) where you're always welcome to bother me if you want to.
> 
> I hope you liked this!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have got to stop writing 10k chapters.....

Keith gets transported to a hospital, and he barely catches a glimpse of the planet before he's lying on a bed again, with monitors above his head and what he assumes is a nurse checking his wounds.

“You should be able to leave in a few days,” she tells him before moving the table with a tray by Keith's bedside closer to him. “Try to eat.”

Keith nods and shifts until he can get the straw into his mouth. The soup — if that's what you'd call it — is warm and lightly spiced, and it tastes like vegetables and pork.

He can't wait to see the planet the Galra originated from. He can only hope his back will heal fast enough.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon does not sigh.

Even if he wants to.

His chief of staff Ezil gives him a look that is as incredulous as she dares to be before glancing at her pad and biting her lip, her ears twitching down.

Zarkon would tell her he understands and agrees with her, but he cannot. He is the Emperor, and such actions would not be acceptable.

“A half-breed?” She repeats.

Zarkon would very much like to sigh. “Yes. Put him in the roster during the quieter quarters. We do not need him visible, even if he is a fascinating scientific anomaly.”

If Ezil bites her lip harder it will bleed, and Zarkon considers pointing that out.

“I'll find something suitable for him.”

“I trust you will.” Zarkon's voice holds a warning that Ezil does not miss, and she bows before leaving him alone in the sitting room to enjoy his first evening back home.

As soon as she's out of the door, Zarkon allows himself to sigh and slump back into the soft chair. His eyes wander across the room, taking in the familiar walls with their centuries old tapestries and the carefully chosen ornaments either hanged on the walls or on the not too noticeable shelves with a few books that were chosen specifically to be decorative.

Everything is chosen and arranged carefully, to put up a front for visitors to see and awe at.

There is no heart to any of it, merely careful, calculated planning, unlike the sitting room in the Imperial Wing that Zarkon had considered retiring into, but opted against when he had decided that the likelihood of him getting anything done in the safety of his own private space was too slim.

Despite it all, this is still Zarkon's home, and the memories he has built during his life warm the room for him, and he enjoys the familiarity of it all.

The pad Zarkon has abandoned on the old wooden table that is soon going to be in need of a new layer of coating to keep it looking pristine beeps, and Zarkon lets out a heavy breath before picking it up.

There's a message form the Imperial Sanatorium he had sent Keith into. He had considered playing it safe by sending Keith into the new Medical Center, but Alfor was right; he is a curiosity, and Zarkon wants him to have the best possible care. The message is composed of the report on Keith's health, as well as a picture of him.

Zarkon forwards it all to Alfor before taking another look at the picture. It does not portray Keith as he truly is, but it offers Zarkon a chance to study Keith's face without any rush. He finds the color of his eyes curious, and the light, almost pale purple of his skin is unusual to say the least, but his ears are perfectly Galran, as is the fire in his eyes.

And he does not lack boldness, if the fact that his first choice had been to take Blaytz's side against Zarkon is anything to go by. Not to mention that he had rather bravely, if foolishly, attempted to escape his captors.

If Keith were fully Galran he could be a person Zarkon might consider worthy of his attention. As it is, Zarkon will, of course, allow him to occupy his mind as much as he would any scientific curiosity, but that will have to be it. Zarkon is going to be a respectable, proper Emperor to his people, just like he was raised to be.

Alfor sends him a message, and Zarkon welcomes the distraction, even if it is nothing more than a thank you for the file on Keith and a picture of Trigel covered in orange foam, grinning brightly.

Knowing how much Alfor wishes Zarkon to be more social, he sends him a request to keep Trigel from destroying her own laboratory.

Alfor sends him a reply a dobash or so later, promising to do just that. Zarkon can practically hear the amused yet pleased tone of his voice, and he is unsure of how to feel about it.

 

* * *

 

It takes less than a week for the healers to declare Keith healthy enough to be released. He has no idea where he's supposed to go, and he tries not to worry about it as he puts on the clothes the healers had given him.

They're grayish blue, with deep orange and red detailing, and they're distinctively Galran, even to Keith's eye. The fabric is thick, and both the shirt and the coat Keith puts on have high collars and long sleeves, and he thinks it's a little too much considering the heat the Galra prefer. The hospital room alone is warm enough to make him want to shed the coat, he can't imagine people walking outside in such heavy layers.

He puts on his knee high boots last, and he's struggling with the latches when the door to his room opens. Keith glances up, raising an eyebrow at the woman studying him.

The clothes she's wearing aren't much different from Keith's but they look expensive. She takes a step forward and clasps her hands behind her back. “My name is Ezil. I am the Chief of Staff of the Imperial Palace, and I have come to escort you to your new home.”

Keith hops down from the bed and straightens his coat. “I'm Keith.” She probably knows it already.

“Are you ready?” Ezil asks, and Keith nods. “Then we must be on our way.” Ezil turns and heads out of the door, and Keith hurries after her.

The clothes rub uncomfortably against his tender back that hasn't fully healed yet, and his wrists are still a little stiff, but at least he's not bleeding anymore. As long as he doesn't stretch his arms or bend his wrists too much, he's fine.

“The Emperor has ordered me to find you a position in the Palace, as the Altean King wishes to study you.” Ezil shows Keith into an elevator. “The protocol of the Palace will be taught to you, and you will be familiarized with your duties before you will be required to work on your own.”

Keith nods and bites his lip. “What kind of work am I supposed to do?”

“We will see what you have an aptitude for, but you will not be visible.” Ezil glances at Keith, the corner of her mouth tilting down.

Keith doesn't know what it's about, and he doesn't get a chance to ask before the elevator comes to a halt and the doors open. He follows Ezil out of the elevator and down the hallway, his attention switching from the Galra walking past them to the gray walls, and to the closed doors that hide who knows what.

There are no pictures on the walls, but there are dotted lines on the floor in varying shades of red, orange, and blue that Keith thinks lead the way to specific parts of the hospital. It's somehow the oddest thing he's seen in a long time.

Ezil shows Keith out of a set of doors that open as they approach, and the heat and the bright sunlight hit Keith, making him stumble. He has to blink against the bright light, and the heat makes him want to take his coat off in less than a minute, but Ezil is already walking down the pale stone street so Keith hurries after her, pulling his bangs to shield his eyes at least a little.

“You will not need to walk in the midday heat often,” Ezil assures him when he catches up to her. “This was the only time I had the time to fetch you today, as the Emperor ordered me to be the one to welcome you to the Palace.”

“Do we have to walk all the way?” Keith asks, going for casual but ending up sounding suffering.

Ezil cocks an eyebrow. “Yes. You will learn to handle the heat, or perish trying.”

Keith gives her an incredulous look, but doesn't say anything.

The streets are mostly abandoned, and Ezil says it's common for people to stay inside during the hottest hours of the day. The architecture is mostly made of stone and bricks and clay, and painted in various colors that aren't too bright, but still bring a certain liveliness to their surroundings.

The buildings aren't too tall, the highest Keith sees is six stories at most, and if it wasn't so hot Keith would stop and take it all in. As it is he notes the complexity of everything — the edges and details and not quite symmetrical designs of the buildings.

There are cactus like bushes planted here and there, and Keith thinks he hears running water somewhere, but he can't be sure if he's just too thirsty and hallucinating or if it's real.

“Come now,” Edzi says, dragging Keith's attention from his surroundings to her. “You'll have a chance to familiarize yourself with the Citadel and even the actual city itself at a later time.”

Soon they reach a wall made of dark stone, rising so high Keith can't look up to the top of it without being blinded by the sun. They stop before a heavy set of doors made of some kind of metal, and Ezil pulls out a pocket sized pad, and there's something old about it, like seeing a phone that's five or so years old in design, and Keith's lips quirk into a smile at the sight of it.

The gates open, and Ezil shows Keith inside.

The sight that greets Keith makes his jaw drop a little. The Palace is huge, obsidian stone — at least Keith thinks it's stone — blending seamlessly into pale gray marble, with tall, arched windows and towers that Keith cranes his neck to get a glimpse of before the sun blinds him.

At some places the stone has been carved to intricate details Keith would need to get a closer look at to fully decipher.

“Come on, now,” Ezil's displeased voice carries into Keith's ears. “If this is how you will behave on regular basis you and I are going to have a problem.”

Keith focuses on the flat stoned walkway before him, and hurries to her side. His eyes still linger on the bushes lining the Palace walls, and flowers in the shade.

Still, when Ezil leads him up the steps of the palace, Keith is more than happy to follow her.

The Palace itself is not cool by any means, but compared to the heat of the outside it's practically chilly, at least for a few blessed moments.

Keith tries to take everything in at once. The floors are a warm, dark color, almost granite looking, and the walls are bluish gray, light in a way that's easy to ignore, but not so pale that they mesh with the flooring.

The entrance hall is big, and their steps echo in the silence of the Palace. The ceiling arches high, and on the walls there are tapestries and paintings, and to Keith's surprise there are a few carefully arranged plants there too.

Keith thinks he could fit his little shack there twice, if not three times.

They don't take the stairs up to the next level. Instead Ezil guides Keith to the right and down a hallway lined with high windows that allow the sun to hit the paintings of landscapes and what Keith assumes are important historical events.

“The glass does not allow the sun’s harmful rays to touch the art, and the covering on them keeps the light from damaging them,” Ezil explains when she notices Keith's interest in them.

Keith nods, tilting his head to better see the thin, barely visible sheet of glass between the art itself, and the frames that are beautiful but not attention grabbing.

They take an inconspicuous door down a flight of stairs, and Keith welcomes the cool air of the lower levels. The lights there are dimmer, and everything is cast in warm, purplish light. The walls are the same shade as on the upper levels, but the floor doesn’t have the granite like patterns.

“This is where you will be living with the rest of the staff,” Ezil says. “You will share a room with Ravik, and you will join him tomorrow on his shift and he will teach you the basics of working here. Today I will give you a tour of the Palace, after you have been fed.”

Keith nods. He's hungry and thirsty, so he welcomes the prospect of getting food.

“This is the mess hall,” Ezil says as she touches her hand on the panel by a set of doors that slide open and reveal a more brightly lit room with several tables, some pushed together. “Usually staff from the kitchen will come and serve the food, but it's late and they have to prepare for the dinner.”

Ezil walks past the tables to the panel near the corner of the room. She taps it, the soft click of her claws carrying across the room, and the dark glass screen on the serving counter clears, then vanishes. There are large ceramic looking, angled food containers with metallic lids, and they fit together in a honeycomb pattern Keith assumes has some practical reason behind it.

Keith takes the plate Ezil offers him, and fills it with scrambled meat and the salmon colored lentils, or at least they look like lentils. He almost skips the odd looking vegetables, but thinks better off it.

Ezil pours him a large glass of blue juice, and Keith sits down to eat. Ezil stays with him, working on her pad with a hard line marring her brow.

To Keith's surprise, he likes the food. It lacks the subtle dryness of the food the Blade of Marmora had so often prepared, as most of their supplies were stored in a way that allowed them to last for a long time. The spices were different as well; subtle yet interesting, and fresh.

After he finished his plate, Ezil takes him on a proper tour of the Palace.

Everything is grand and stylish, with a sense of history clinging to the walls and rooms. There's something ancient about everything, even when Keith can tell the curtains are new, or a tapestry has no faded colors like its companion next to it. It makes him feel small, and he knows he doesn't belong there.

He tries not to think of the fact that soon it all will be gone, along with the planet.

“Up those stairs is the Imperial family's wing, which you are to never enter,” Ezil says as they pass a grand stairwell, and Keith nods, mostly because his sense of wonderment keeps him from questioning her.

The extensive tour includes a library, two sitting rooms —one of which coupled as an art gallery—, a dining room, a throne room, a ball room —“Celebration Hall,” Ezil tells Keith—, two conference rooms, and a dozen other places.

Keith knows he'll get lost there. He knows it.

Finally Ezil introduces Keith to the servant's floor. There is a sitting room that's nowhere near as grand as the ones above them, but it's cozy. They have their own bathrooms and showers, and everyone shares a room with someone.

Ezil leaves Keith in his new room, and though it's empty, there are clear signs of being lived in, like clothes thrown on a bed that has been made, but left crumbled still. The table in the corner has a book and a mug on it, and what Keith assumes is going to be his bed has various knickknacks on it.

Keith sighs and clears his bed of the things, carefully setting them aside before slumping on the bed and closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Ravik is easy enough to get along with, and he's a good teacher when it comes to Keith's assigned chores. He introduces Keith to the hidden hallways and secret doors that are there as much for the staff to use as it is to offer the Imperial Family an escape route if they ever needed it.

The problem with them is that they make it a lot easier for Keith to get lost. He relies on Ravik's guidance for a week, before Ravik decides Keith can go dust the library on his own.

So Keith tries.

He takes the servants corridors to where he thinks he's supposed to go, but when he exits them he's fairly sure he's taken a wrong turn somewhere, and he has no idea where he is.

He bites his lip and tries to spot something he recognizes, and soon he realizes he knows the view from the windows. The garden below him is a rather spectacular sight in its own right; stone paths crisscrossing between the greenery and pools of sand that have beautiful patterns drawn on them in different colors. There's a small fountain in the middle of the garden that is only turned on as the sun goes down.

Keith hasn't been there, but the sight of it is something he enjoys. He wonders if the smell of the flowers hangs in the air, and what it would be like to sit there late at night, when the lanterns are lit and the fountain is on.

He shakes his head and turns away from the window. He has more pressing things to do. Like figuring out which way the library is. He thinks he should go left, so he does, hurrying around the corner —

And for the second time he runs straight into Zarkon.

Keith's head throbs from coming into contact with Zarkon's armor, and again Zarkon takes hold of his arms to keep him from falling down.

“Do you ever wear anything but armor?” Keith grumbles and rubs his forehead.

Zarkon stares at him for a second, then snatches his hands back almost like touching Keith had burned him. “I beg your pardon?”

It takes Keith a moment to remember what Ezil had told him about the Palace protocol. Namely that Keith should avoid being noticed by anyone — especially Zarkon — and he was never to say anything in Zarkon's presence, unless directly requested by Zarkon to do so.

“Um.” Keith takes a step back and bites his lip, racking his brain for the best response. “Sorry?” He cringes at his tone.

Zarkon continues to stare at Keith like he's expecting Keith to snap and maybe try to murder him while screaming.

“I got lost,” Keith explains, a little too fast. “I was looking for the library and, well, the servants corridors don't have signs so I think I took a wrong turn somewhere and this place is so big that I'm not sure which way I'm supposed to go.”

Zarkon blinks, processing Keith's words, then he shifts and points at the hallway going to the opposite direction of where Keith thought he was supposed to go. “That way.”

Keith glances over his shoulder and lets out a nervous laugh. “Thanks.”

They stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment longer before Keith cracks and waves at the direction he's supposed to be going. “Well, I should...” He makes another motion at the general direction of the hallway and turns on his heels, and walks away as fast as he can without running.

“Keith.”

He stops and turns around at Zarkon's voice, berating himself for how fast he does so. This is _Zarkon_ , a Zarkon of another time and reality, perhaps, but still Zarkon.

Keith would be doing the future a favor if he killed Zarkon where he stands.

Zarkon straightens up, if that's even possible for him. “Alfor is arriving to study you this evening. I suspect Ezil has been too busy to inform you of it yet, as Alfor was not considerate enough to inform us of his arrival before this morning. As you are a member of my staff I expect you to be presentable” — he quickly looks Keith up and down — “so I suggest you take the time to make sure that is the case.”

Keith glances down himself, at the dust and smudges on his uniform. His bangs fall on his face, having been freed from the braid Ravik had done for him in the morning. It was not acceptable for a member of the staff to have their hair free. The problem is that the Galra either use headbands — which Keith had not found that morning — or braid their hair if it's long enough, which it usually apparently is.

Ravik had told Keith that long hair is culturally more acceptable than short hair. Keith would have asked why if they hadn't been interrupted by Ezil telling them that they should focus on their work, not chatting.

“Okay.” Keith nods and waits for a few seconds for Zarkon to say something else, but when he remains silent Keith nods again and heads to the direction of the library. He gets about ten steps before turning around and heading after Zarkon who has already disappeared around the corner.

“Zarkon!” Keith comes to a halt as soon as he rounds the corner.

Zarkon swirls around, his eyes wide with surprise and indignation.

Keith grimaces, and half curtsies, half bows. “Lord Emperor.”

Zarkon's expression shifts — in annoyance or bafflement, Keith isn't sure — before he schools a more neutral look on his face, but there's something uncomfortable about him that keeps it from looking natural. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” Keith starts, shifting on his feet, and blush creeping up his face. He shouldn't be doing this. “For saving me from” — he waves his hand — “and letting me come here and giving me a job.”

And now he's thanking Zarkon.

_Zarkon._

But connecting this Zarkon with the Zarkon of his own reality is not quite as easy as Keith assumed it would be. This Zarkon does not only look different from the Zarkon Keith remembers, but he's got a kindness to him that puts Keith at ease, whether he likes it or not.

Zarkon shifts, his hands twitching like he wants to cross them, and he looks at anywhere but Keith. “Well. You are one of my people so it would have been bad form of me to allow you to continue suffering.”

Keith blinks, a smile spreading on his face.

Zarkon is _awkward_.

At least Keith isn't the only one who isn't sure how to act. But Zarkon even being capable of awkwardness was never something Keith even considered, and seeing it in person makes him unreasonably delighted.

And Keith's inability to hide his amusement makes Zarkon even more uncomfortable, which makes Keith grin more widely.

He should stop.

He should apologize and show some respect, because it's what's expected of him, and for all he knows disrespecting the Emperor is a crime punishable by imprisonment or death.

“I must go,” Zarkon declares without a warning and turns around, and strides away a little too fast.

Keith stares after him, incredulous and not quite believing what just happened. A huff of laughter escapes his lips and he shakes his head before heading to the library like he's supposed to do.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon does not know what happened. He was walking, then Keith was there and he was not behaving in a way any decent servant would ever behave. He had dared to question Zarkon's dressing choices, he had babbled, he had even called Zarkon by his name.

And then he had given the most half-hearted show of respect possible that Zarkon knew he had not meant, because he wanted to thank Zarkon.

It should not have made Zarkon fluster. He should have been able to hold his composure with no effort. Keith was a mere half-breed. A pleasant looking but disrespectful half-breed at that. He had not even bothered to properly follow the simple dress code set down for the staff.

Zarkon should be offended by Keith's entire being.

He does not know what happened.

Perhaps he should call Alfor and cancel his plans to study Keith. Perhaps he should allow Alfor to take Keith with him back to Altea, like he had suggested. But Zarkon had protested and made it very clear that he would not allow Alfor to take Keith from his home, and he did not want to take his words back. Not over something so ridiculous, at least.

Zarkon heads to the safety of the Imperial Wing. He feels the headache building behind his eyes, and he blames Keith for it. Perhaps Alfor too, just a little. But mostly Keith.

He will need to rest before welcoming Alfor into his home, and he needs to make sure that Ezil brings Keith to the front steps of the Palace before sundown.

Alfor had insisted at least studying Keith in the Castleship, and — though grudgingly — Zarkon had to agree with him. The Castleship does have more advanced equipment than anything on Daibazaal, and admitting the truth hurts no one.

It is merely a goal for Zarkon and his people. Someday they will surpass the Alteans, or at least be on equal footing with them. Alfor might think it silly, but it is not in the Galra nature to sit back and accept that they have been bested in anything.

And Zarkon will most definitely not be bested by a half-breed.

 

* * *

 

Ezil bows, and after a second Keith remembers to do the same. When Ezil straightens out, she narrows her eyes at Keith in warning before turning on her heels and marching back inside.

Zarkon doesn't say anything as he starts down the steps, and Keith follows him one step behind, like he'd been told to do.

He'd been told to do and not do a lot of things. Don't speak unless spoken to. Do show respect to those who deserve it. Do stand straight and present yourself in a manner befit of a member of the Imperial staff. Do not fidget.

Do not address the Emperor.

“So where are we going?” Keith asks.

Zarkon's shoulders stiffen minutely. “The Altean Castleship. Alfor wishes to study you with his equipment.”

Keith nods and bites his lip.

He'll have to be careful. He can't show he knows his way around the Castleship. He can't show he's ever even seen it before.

They walk through the Citadel, and the streets are buzzing with life now that the scorching sun has set, but the heat still lingers in the air, making everything pleasantly warm. The Galra they pass bow at Zarkon, but Zarkon's presence doesn't disrupt their lives beyond that.

And Zarkon, though not stopping to greet any of them, has a softness to him that makes Keith almost stumble. Zarkon so clearly loves his people, and Keith can see how this Zarkon could become a Paladin of Voltron.

Keith frowns. Is Voltron even something that exists in this reality? He supposes he would have heard of Zarkon's Altean wife at least once by now if it did. Hadn't that been something that Coran told them had happened before Voltron was created?

Keith isn't sure. The facts are getting muddled in his mind, and he's not sure why. Maybe the stress of being in a reality not his own is finally getting to him and making him not think clearly.

At the gates of the Citadel, there's a hovercraft waiting for them. Zarkon shows Keith inside, and they travel through the city itself in not entirely comfortable silence.

Keith wants to break the silence, but he's supposed to be quiet and he doesn't want to bother Zarkon while he is so focused on his pad and pointedly ignoring Keith.

The hovercraft stops after ten long minutes, and Keith follows Zarkon out.

The Castleship looks like safety and home in the strangeness of the world around Keith, but he reminds himself that this is not the Castleship of his world. It's not home, and he doesn't know this place. Not really.

The hallways of the Castleship are as Keith remembers them, but somehow different — lived in and warmer.

He follows Zarkon, their steps echoing in the exact same ways Keith is used to, all the way up to the laboratory that, unlike in Keith's reality, is filled with lighted up screens and running experiments and equipment scattered around, organized and chaotic at the same time.

“You're here.” Alfor's voice carries from the back of the room, and he scrambles to his feet from where he'd been crouching in the middle of a mess of cords and wires.

For a moment, Zarkon has the air of someone long-suffering yet indulgently patient, but it passes, and Keith isn't sure if it was ever there.

“How have you been?” Alfor asks as he approaches them, his question directed at Keith.

Keith glances at Zarkon and shrugs. “Fine. The Palace staff is nice and I like to be useful.”

Alfor nods and stops to rummage through one of the drawers on the worktables, muttering to himself as he does so. “Ah!” He turns to face them with a triumphant grin. He's holding Keith's blade in his hand. “I got it back.”

Keith starts forward, a smile spreading on his lips. He takes the blade and inspects it for damage, fearing the Bryx had not treated it with the care it deserved. Alfor huffs, but doesn't say anything, and Zarkon comes to hover behind Keith while keeping the maximum amount of distance possible between them while still being able to peer over Keith’s shoulder. “It is a fine blade.”

“It was my mothers,” Keith replies, absent and lost in memory. A sadness creeps over him, and something must show on his face since both Alfor and Zarkon turn serious.

Keith hurries to hide the blade under his clothes and schools his features into something more cheerful. “What are you going to do with me?”

Alfor's expression is knowing, but he indulges Keith by guiding him to sit on a high stool. “I just want to take a few readings of you, to see how the rift affected you and if anything still lingers. This shouldn't take too long.”

Keith nods and shifts, glancing at Zarkon who is standing back, keeping a close eye on Alfor while he waves different devices around Keith, humming thoughtfully every now and again.

“Done,” Alfor declares after several long minutes. “You can hop down now.”

Keith does, and he straightens his clothes while Zarkon and Alfor retreat to one of the desks to talk quietly.

Keith takes the chance to wander around. A part of him wants to stay. He wants to be surrounded by the familiarity of the Castleship and the safety it offers, he wants to get away from Zarkon that's nothing like the Zarkon Keith knew, but kinder, gentler, _awkward_ person who had taken Keith under his wing and given him a place in a world he doesn't know.

He wants to go back to the Palace.

As if reading his mind, Zarkon calls for him, and Keith turns to face him. “We must be going now,” Zarkon says, and Keith nods before making his way to Zarkon's side.

They say their goodbyes to Alfor who is half lost in his research already as they head out of the laboratory.

 

* * *

 

Alfor returns a week later to run more tests, this time accompanied by a woman he introduces to Keith as Trigel. She's quiet at first, reserved but curious, but once she has made her mind about Keith she smiles and relaxes, and asks Keith a series of questions he's barely able to process before she's asking another thing.

She works well with Alfor, and Keith likes her.

“I thought they're friends,” Keith says to her when Alfor gets Zarkon to snap at him for the second time in less than ten minutes.

Trigel spares them a brief glance over her shoulder before focusing on Keith again. “They are, but Alfor thinks Zarkon needs to loosen up. He teases because he thinks it will help.”

“Why would he need to loosen up?” Keith asks.

Trigel cocks her head. “Situations where there is no clear social structures or protocols to follow are not easy for him so he over compensates by being stiff and trying to control the situation.”

“So maybe don't pick on him?” Keith bites his lip, but the words have already escaped his mouth and there's nothing he can do to take them back.

Trigel stills, and she studies Keith with such intense curiosity and focus that he can’t help but fidget. “Maybe you should be his friend,” she says finally.

Keith snorts. “I don't think he likes me. And not just because I'm half-Galra.”

Trigel's lips quirk up in amusement. “He's not here guarding you because he thinks Alfor is going to mistreat you.”

Keith raises a confused eyebrow. “You haven't seen the way he looks at me every time I say something.”

Counting the one time Zarkon had downright flustered, he always makes sure Keith sees his disapproval of his behavior on his face. And Keith still keeps doing things he knows Zarkon doesn’t want him to do.

Trigel's smile only widens. “But he lets you talk to him.”

There's something Keith's supposed to grasp, or so her tone makes him think. He frowns, but Trigel is already focused on studying the readings on her pad, and Keith doesn't want to bother her.

He can't figure out what she'd meant when she'd said that Zarkon lets Keith talk to him. Keith isn't oblivious to it annoying Zarkon, and he keeps waiting for the day Zarkon's patience will snap and he'll tell Keith to shut up or else.

Because while Zarkon is kind, he's also Zarkon, and Keith has no doubt that he can get mean if he wants to. Ruthless, even. It's all there, simmering deep under the surface, waiting for the rift to appear and give it all an excuse to bubble to the surface.

Keith's mood turns sour, and he's quiet while he follows Zarkon back to the Palace an hour later. Zarkon spares him a look Keith doesn't bother deciphering, but for once their journey back is silent, and Keith assumes Zarkon appreciates it.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon does not want to leave his home, but he had promised to help Alfor fight the rebellion threatening his kingdom. He may not want to leave, but he wants to make a liar out of himself even less.

And Alfor is his friend.

So Zarkon makes the preparations, not letting anyone see how little he enjoys leaving home for an extended period of time. His people are not used to such an alliance. He must show them that it does not bother him to honor it, or they will fight against the alliance and Zarkon will be forced to break it.

“I'd like you to bring Keith,” Alfor says one evening when they are going over the rebellion situation again.

Zarkon frowns. “He has no combat experience and he is not needed on the staff.”

“I have a few tests I'd still like to run, and I fear that if we wait the traces of the rift will dissipate and disappear completely while we're gone.” Alfor does his best to look imploring, but the large screen does not do him any favors and he ends up looking more like a large eyed desert rodent. Not that Zarkon judges him for it. “I'll house him in the Castleship.”

Zarkon does not sigh, even though he wants to, and he knows Alfor would not judge him if he did. “He will be your responsibility. You will return him to me unharmed and healthy.”

“Of course,” Alfor replies and bows minutely. “He will be treated as one of our own.”

“He is not one of yours,” Zarkon points out.

Alfor waves his hand impatiently, but his expression is soft. “I didn't mean literally. I merely meant that he will be treated according to the same standards as everyone else on the Castleship. And I will make sure everyone knows he's an important guest, so his needs and safety will be a priority to us.”

Zarkon inclines his head, trying not to feel stupid for not grasping Alfor's meaning in the first place. He blames it on the translator and the lack of nuance of the Altean language.

“It's not a crime to want friends,” Alfor says, and Zarkon narrows his eyes at him.

It is not a crime, true, but unlike Alfor, Zarkon must consider the propriety of befriending certain kinds of people.

Alfor takes his silence as an invitation to continue talking. “You're Galra. You need people in your life. You are not meant to be alone.”

“I am fully aware of what I need,” Zarkon snaps, already regretting it. Alfor means no harm, and it is not right of Zarkon to get angry at him for caring.

And he is not wrong. Zarkon does need people. He does need closeness and company, and he has it, in a way. His personal servant, Azra — tasked with maintaining his living quarters and assisting him when he needs it — is a rather tactile person, and Zarkon enjoys her company.

Alfor had once suggested that Zarkon consider her as a romantic partner. Zarkon had scowled and explained to him the strict social structure by which the Galra Empire lived, and all the dozen reasons why he could not take a servant as his lover, let alone mate.

Not to mention Azra has a clear fondness for the chief gardener's assistant, and Zarkon would never step between them.

“I just worry,” Alfor says, apologetic and quiet.

It takes effort, but Zarkon does not flinch. “I appreciate that. Now, I would like to focus on the matter at hand.”

Alfor straightens up. “I have already talked to the others, and they're coming as well. This rebellion cell is deep in a desert, and the atmosphere keeps our technology from scanning the area. And there is a chance they have located the tunnel network and are hiding there.”

“I can find them,” Zarkon assures him. It would be shameful if he could not. A Galra who cannot navigate a desert and hunt down their target is not deserving of leading the Empire. “I will need a map of the area and their last known location.”

“I'm sending those to you now.” Alfor looks down, and soon Zarkon's pad beeps, signaling Alfor had indeed sent the files to him. Zarkon opens them and scans the map of the vast desert almost absently, just to get a feel of it. “Gyrgan will help you if you need him to. I don't want to ask Blaytz to trek through a desert, but I think Trigel will be willing to come, and I'll come, even though I'll probably suffer because of the heat.”

“Trigel would be better served making sure communications work. And Blaytz will appreciate the company.” Zarkon marks a few places that the rebel cell might be using for shelter. “And I would prefer you stay behind rather than slow us down.”

“I can make it. I'll just put on my desert clothes and — “

“Stay back and help Trigel. I will call you as soon as I have something. Gyrgan and I will move faster the smaller our group is.” Zarkon levels Alfor with a look that leaves no room for argument, and after a moment of defiant staring Alfor sighs and slumps.

“The moment you have anything,” he says. “I don't want you to have to take care of my problems for me.”

“I always take care of your problems,” Zarkon points out, without malice or blame in his voice. “You are my friend.”

Alfor grins, bright and happy. “Yes I am. Best friends, right?”

Zarkon inclines his head. “Make sure you have the time to run your tests on Keith. I would hate to drag him from his work and not have him be useful.”

“I will,” Alfor promises.

They talk until Alfor can't stop fighting his yawns, and Zarkon has to cut the transmission mid Alfor's protests just to make him go to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Arranging Keith's stay in the Castleship is easier than Zarkon assumed it would be, but trusting Keith's safety into the hands of the Alteans is not as easy as it sounds. It is not that Zarkon does not trust Alfor, he does, more than most people, but he has never left a member of his staff into the care of others, and definitely not in the care of non-Galrans.

All that is left for Zarkon to do is to make sure his belongings have been packed and that Keith is informed of their impending departure.

Azra places a tea cup in front of him before standing back. Zarkon allows her a lot of leniency. She may talk to him, and usually she enjoys chatting when Zarkon is in a good mood, but now she stands there waiting for Zarkon to either dismiss her or welcome her company.

Deciding he needs a distraction, Zarkon tells her to talk.

“I have packed for your journey,” Azra informs him with a small bow of her head.

That is one of Zarkon's problems death with. “Thank you.”

Azra bows again, then fidgets, which is unusual enough to catch Zarkon's attention. He raises an eyebrow at her. “Will I be joining you?” She does not look like she wants the answer to be yes.

Zarkon ponders on it. She is probably hoping to go to the monthly market event with the gardener’s assistant. He thinks she was talking about it that morning. “You may stay here. I am capable of caring for myself, and I will be taking another member of the staff with me either way.”

Azra seems curious, but she knows better than to question him.

“The half-breed I brought from the Bryx colonies? Alfor has an interest in him,” Zarkon explains, even though he knows he does not have to do so.

Azra inclines her head. Zarkon trusts her not to gossip, it is one of the reasons he has had her as his servant for years. She knows when to stay out of sight, she knows when to keep him company. She picked up on his habits and needs fast, without him needing to do much explaining, and she knows how important secrecy is — not only to Zarkon, but to the whole Empire.

So, though Zarkon knows he does not have to tell her anything, he feels better assuring her he is not taking Keith because he prefers him to her.

Zarkon draws in a deep breath and glances at his pad. “I would like a bath later. I must see Ezil in a moment but I want it ready after that.”

Azra bows. “Of course, my Lord.”

She leaves Zarkon in his library, and after a tick alone Zarkon sends Ezil a message instructing her to bring Keith along with her.

He smooths a wrinkle off his deep purple coat and arranges the high, sometimes suffocating collar of the too long cloak.

Perhaps he should take Gyrgan's advice and look into something less constricting to wear in the evenings.

It takes a dobash or two at most, but Ezil enters the library with a wide eyed Keith in tow.

Of course the library in the Imperial wing is not quite as impressive as the one in the public area, but it is more lived in, and Zarkon prefers it. He narrows his eyes at Keith to keep him from commenting on it.

“You may go,” he tells Ezil, who masks her surprise quite well before bowing and walking out of the door.

Keith wanders to Zarkon, his eyes darting across the room until he comes to a halt in front of Zarkon, and his attention focuses solely on him. Zarkon allows Keith a moment to take in his appearance before leveling him with a stern gaze.

“You are going to join me when I leave to assist Alfor on... a matter that does not concern you. During our stay on the Castleship you will make yourself available to me and do anything and everything I may ask you, and you will comply with Alfor when he wishes to run his experiments on you.” Zarkon is satisfied with his explanation of the situation, but the way Keith looks at him — all confusion and uncertainty — makes him doubt himself. Perhaps he was not clear enough.

Or perhaps he was to blunt. Alfor often says he is.

“Questions?”

Keith's brow furrows, and the way he bites his lip draws Zarkon's attention, just for a tick. “I assume you and Alfor will make sure that you won't need me while he's doing his tests?”

Zarkon inclines his head.

Keith nods. “And, um, what exactly will you need me to do? Just so I’ll know what to expect.”

Zarkon relaxes. He had not been too unclear or too blunt after all. He must be making progress. “I will need you to fetch things for me, mostly. Make sure I do not need to concern myself with trivial things. Bring me my breakfast unless Alfor or one of the others has requested me to join them. You will be informed of it in the morning, in which case you will tell me about it in haste, or I will inform you of it in the evening. You will also arrange for my tea.”

Keith nods again. “I assume I don't have to actually prepare your breakfast. I don't know if you'd like my cooking.”

Zarkon's lips quirk up against his wishes. “The kitchen staff will take care of that, as well as my tea. All you need to do is bring it to me while it is still warm.”

Keith bites his lip again, and Zarkon watches him for half a tick before focusing on his tea. It should not be distracting.

But Keith is disrespectful and he talks when he should not, and he looks at Zarkon like he's something strange and fascinating, a puzzle for him to solve. He looks at Zarkon like they are equals, even though it could not be further from the truth.

Keith starts forward, reaching for the deep plate of biscuits Azra had laid out earlier. He stops, hand hovering over the plate. “Um. Do you mind?”

Zarkon stares at him. Such a disrespectful half-breed. But, Zarkon supposes, he is trying. And his disrespect is not truly to Zarkon as a person, but to Zarkon as an Emperor. No one has ever done that before. Even those who have no respect for Zarkon as a person respect his power.

It makes Zarkon want to earn his respect in a way he has never wanted to earn anyone else's, and he finds it infuriating and fascinating.

Zarkon inclines his head, and Keith takes a biscuit and sits down on one of the chairs.

By the time he reaches for another one, Zarkon has regained enough of his senses to pick up his tea cup.

 

* * *

 

The room Keith gets in the Castleship is like the one he had before — will have in the future — but different. There's something so fundamentally wrong about it, but it's still so familiar. Keith swallows around the lump in his throat and clenches his fists.

His nails have grown longer, and they're too thick for him to bite through. Too thick for him to cut.

Ravik had told him to take a day and get them filed by a professional. He'd said Keith could come with him and a few others, but that had been before Keith had known he would have to leave for at least a week. Most likely more.

And he'll be spending that time playing servant to Zarkon and being tested by Alfor.

As long as it will get him home. Keith tells himself it's just until he gets home. He shouldn't get attached to these people, he shouldn't make plans to go to a salon with Ravik, and he shouldn't enjoy spending time with the Palace staff.

He shouldn't look forward to meeting Alfor and the other future Paladins, and he certainly shouldn't feel like smiling every time he sees Zarkon.

That might be the worst, Keith thinks, but he can't get over how _different_ Zarkon is in this time. He can't see the Zarkon of this time as the person who enslaved half the universe. They're just not the same person, and as much as Keith tries to tell himself that they will be, he just can't see it.

Keith tries to figure out a way to keep everything together as he unpacks his things from the bag Ravik had borrowed him. “Don't get a smudge on it,” he'd warned, and Keith had been tempted to pretend pouring tea over it.

It feels wrong, somehow, to be living in the Castleship again. He doesn't belong there, not in this time. Being there makes it hard for him to not think of the others. They must be worried. Krolia — mother — is probably forcing Kolivan to spare all the resources they have to finding him. Shiro is probably helping her.

Maybe Keith should leave a note or something in the Castleship to let them know he's alright, and that he's in the past. He's seen it in the movies, it should work.

If there's anyone to leave a note to, anymore. Who knows what Keith's presence is doing to the future.

Keith thinks he should come up with a plan in case he's stuck in the past permanently. He needs to decide if he should make himself as unimportant and unnoticeable as possible, and let things play out as they're supposed to, or if he should try to change the past.

If he should try to save not only the Altean people, but the Galra as well. Because their home will be destroyed, and they'll be driven to becoming something they're so clearly not. Keith can't imagine the Galra he's met and gotten to know ever taking over the universe. He can't imagine them growing so cruel and cold that they'd derive enjoyment from the suffering of others.

Keith isn't sure he has any right to tamper with history, though. Who is he to decide that erasing ten thousand years of history is acceptable? Who is he to decide who gets to survive and who dies?

Keith sighs. He wishes Shiro was there to tell him what to do.

After he's unpacked, Keith goes to wander around the ship. If anyone asks what he's doing he'll just say he's familiarizing himself with his surroundings.

He can't help but stare at the Alteans he passes.

He had known they were there, happy and alive, but seeing them go on about their lives with no idea of what is to come of them is still strange and a little heartbreaking.

He should do something. He should stab Zarkon to death while he sleeps and keep him from ever rising to power. Though, if Keith is smart about it, getting rid of Zarkon doesn't guarantee the safety of the universe or the Alteans. He's seen that the Galra don't need Zarkon around to continue tormenting those they deem lesser.

So maybe killing Zarkon isn't the way to go. Maybe he should try to stop him from going into the rift. Maybe that's the key.

But Keith doesn't know how to do that. At least not yet.

Keith is so lost in thought he almost runs into the woman exciting the elevator, and he hurries to apologize, but the words die in his mouth before he can get them out.

She looks like Allura, but she's not her. Keith knows it, but just for a second he could've been fooled.

“Oh, hello,” she says and smiles, and Keith steps aside to let her out of the elevator.

“Hi.” Keith shifts on his feet, unsure of what to say or do. He suspects this is Allura's mother, but he can't recall ever being told her name.

“You are with Emperor Zarkon's entourage?” She asks, conversational and kind.

Keith shifts again and straightens the hem of his tailed jacket. “Yes. A — King Alfor requested it.”

She smiles warmly. “Yes, he told me about you. I hope his curiosity isn't bothering you.”

“No, not at all. He's helping me to get home,” Keith hurries to reply. “Everyone has been really nice to me.”

“That's good.” She bows her head, as if to say goodbye, and steps past Keith, only to stop and turn around again with a dismayed look on her face. “Oh, I'm being rude. My name is Lurana. I'm Alfor's fiancée.”

Keith's eyes widen. “Of course.” He knows Allura's mother's name. “I'm Keith.”

Lurana smiles. “I know. I hope your stay with us is a pleasant one.”

Keith nods, and to be respectful, bows. She smiles at Keith before going her way, and Keith hurries into the elevator. He takes a floor down and circles back to his room, not feeling like wandering around anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you guys pick on Zarkon?” Keith asks Alfor while Alfor draws his blood to see if there are anything special about it.

“We're not picking on him. We're just poking a little fun at him. It's harmless.”

“He doesn't seem to like it,” Keith points out, and Alfor spares him a glance.

“He's never had friends. Real friends, at least. He takes everything a little too seriously sometimes.” Alfor draws the needle from Keith's arm and walks to the table with his instruments. “He knows we mean him no harm.”

“I just” — Keith sighs, his shoulders slumping — “he looks like it bothers him. Especially coming from Blaytz.”

Alfor turns to Keith with an amused, if a little incredulous look in his eyes. “Two things. First: No one here would ever dream of trying to hurt Zarkon or his feelings. We’re his friends and we care about him. Second: Well. Blaytz is a special kind of annoyance to Zarkon.” He returns to Keith's side, his amusement making way for a seriousness that makes Keith sit up and pay attention. “Zarkon and Blaytz's nations were at war not too long ago. They inherited it from their parents, and they were both smart enough to call it to an end. Blaytz was a little hostile towards Zarkon at first, but that's in the past. He's just trying to get Zarkon to loosen up a little.”

“Well, maybe Zarkon doesn't see it as being in the past,” Keith says. “It's not easy to tell when someone who's been hostile and mean to you in the past is making fun of you in a friendly way.”

Alfor hides his surprise well, but Keith still spots it. He crosses his arms and studies Keith with a new kind of curiosity, and Keith meets his gaze without blinking. “You know what you're talking about.”

Keith tries not to bristle. “That's not important.”

“It is,” Alfor replies. “It is very important. You —“ The ping of the computer drags Alfor's attention from Keith, and he hurries to check the results of Keith's blood work.

Keith waits, shifting anxiously in his seat. Alfor hadn't outright said it, but the impression Keith had gotten was that this is what determines whether or not Keith will get to go home. It's about time too, they've been testing and experimenting on Keith for weeks now.

Alfor's shoulders slump, and Keith's heart sinks. “I think we should talk about your future,” Alfor says, and Keith knows what it means.

“You can't send me home.”

Alfor turns to him, and shakes his head. “No. Not yet. I have an idea of how the rift affected you — nothing serious, I assure you, just a trace of its energy clinging to you — but even if we were to find a rift big enough to send you through, we'd have no way of knowing where you would end up, or if you would survive it.”

Keith nods, his eyes cast on the floor. It's nothing he hasn't considered already, but he had hoped that Alfor, with all the Altean technology and the thriving society and all the scientists and experts on his side, would have come up with something that he hadn't considered.

“Hey.” Keith looks up to Alfor. “Put three spoonfuls of sweetener in Zarkon's tea. He likes it sickly sweet but he'll never tell you that.”

Keith hops down from the examination table and nods. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Don't let the less than warm exterior push you away. He cares about you and he will take care of you.” Alfor offers Keith an encouraging smile. “Now go fetch his tea. Surprise him by being there before he calls for you.”

Keith stands a little straighter and nods before walking out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Keith doesn't mind staying behind when Zarkon leaves for the planet. He needs the time to think and come to grips with the fact that, in all likelihood, he's going to be spending the rest of his life in the past, watching as things head towards a catastrophe that the entire universe will still be paying for ten thousand years into the future.

He stays mostly in his room, only wandering about the ship when he knows the hallways are quiet.

Three days later a commotion breaks in the bridge, but Keith isn't invited to see what's going on, and nobody bothers to tell him.

Several hours later an Altean servant informs Keith that Zarkon will be returning shortly, and just to busy himself, Keith gets his tea ready.

Alfor had been right when he'd said Zarkon preferred his tea sweet. Zarkon had been surprised when Keith had brought him the sweetened tea, and he'd eyed Keith suspiciously until Keith admitted that Alfor had told him to add the sweetener. The sour look on Zarkon's face had been amusing enough to make Keith crack a smile, albeit briefly, and Zarkon's expression had only soured more.

It takes some time for Zarkon return to his room. It's bigger than Keith's, more of a suite, really, fitting for someone of Zarkon's status. There are tasteful decorations on the walls, and the bed is bigger than Keith's, and while there is a desk, there is also two compact armchairs with a small table arranged with them, and that's where Keith sets the tea down.

He waits for Zarkon to return, and feels a little stupid for doing so. Sometimes it hits Keith that where he's from, these people are dead and Zarkon is evil. It's hard for him to reconcile that with what he sees daily. The Galra are not the most welcoming people, but there's nothing evil about them, and the Alteans are alive and well, and Zarkon is —

“What are you doing here?”

Keith swirls around. Zarkon looks tired and his armor has been splattered with blood and dust, but he still levels Keith with a demanding glare.

“I got your tea,” Keith replies, then hurries to bow a little. “My Lord.”

He'll never get used to treating Zarkon with the respect he deserves. And Keith knows he deserves respect, he can see it, but he just doesn't have any to offer him. Not as Keith's Emperor, at least. As just Zarkon, sure, but Keith can't bring himself to respect him as his Emperor.

Zarkon slumps on one of the chairs, and the only reason Keith doesn't tell him he's getting the furniture dirty is that he knows the Altean staff works fast and can remove any and all stains from the chairs, and Zarkon looks like he needs to rest.

“Did you, um, succeed in what you were supposed to do?” Keith asks.

Zarkon pulls his gloves off and drops them on the ground, and after a moment he pushes his crown off and lets it fall on the table with a clank that rings loud in the silent room. His ears twitch, like they'd been stuck in the same position for too long.

Keith sighs quietly and crouches down to pick the gloves off the ground. “Is there anything I can do for you?“

“I want you,” Zarkon starts, his eyes meeting Keith's, just for a moment before he looks away, “to arrange a bath for me. Talk to... Coran. Or whoever is in charge of the staff about it.”

A minute frown appears on Keith's face as he pushes himself up the floor. He has never seen Zarkon like this; tired and without his usual poise — almost vulnerable. “I can do that,” Keith assures him with a solemn nod of his head.

He puts the gloves on top of the drawer before heading to the door. He stops before opening it, and turns around. “Drink your tea while it's still warm.”

Zarkon spares him an incredulously amused glance, and Keith smiles briefly before walking out of the door.

He finds Coran easily enough, and since Alfor had introduced them already he doesn't have to pretend he doesn't know who Coran is. That had been the hardest part, meeting Coran. He's so much like Keith remembers, but there's an innocence and joy to him that breaks Keith's heart, just a little. There are no shadows clouding his expression when he thinks no one is looking.

“Zarkon requested a bath, he said you could arrange it.” Keith wrings his hands and bites his lip. It's a simple request, but Keith is still uncomfortable around Coran. He _knows_ Coran. At least he knows him in the future, but this Coran before him, this young, so easily happy Coran, is a stranger.

Just like Zarkon is.

“I can, and I will. Right now,” Coran replies easily despite the tiredness clinging to him after the long day he must have had. “Please inform him that his bath will be ready in no less than fifteen dobashes, and that I will personally make sure the water will be heated to a temperature suited for a Galra.”

Keith nods. “I will. Thanks.”

He heads back to Zarkon and lets him know the bath will be ready for him shortly. Zarkon has more or less finished his tea by then, and there are enough cracks in his typically well constructed mask that Keith can see his exhaustion.

“Do you want help?” Keith asks, and when Zarkon looks at him Keith motions at his armor. It feels like the right thing to do, and when Zarkon stands without saying a word and moves to the closet, Keith goes to his side and helps Zarkon get the armor off.

“Should anyone ask for me before tomorrow noon, I am not available,” Zarkon says.

Keith nods. “I'll make sure no one bothers you.”

Zarkon doesn't thank him or offer any other kind of response, but some of the tenseness leaves his body, and to Keith it feels like a reward of its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna call Allura's mom Fala, but.... I like my dumb.. not jokes really, but funny little things. You don't have to get it to enjoy the fic and I'm not gonna explain it here because it's really not important.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took forever but on the other hand I've been sick so I say it's acceptable. But hey! Voltron season 6 is here. That's something, right?

Not having expected Alfor to be done with Keith quite so fast, Zarkon is unsure of what he should do with him now that his reason for allowing Keith to remain in the Palace is gone.

Zarkon does not tell Ezil about it until two days later, and she is observant enough to know that he would prefer to keep Keith in the staff.

“He is rather useful,” Ezil offers, even though they both know it is not true. Keith is not entirely useless, but he is still not useful in any meaningful way. He does not even understand the Galra culture.

“Train him to be a substitute in the Imperial Wing. I find him less grating than the last person you selected,” Zarkon says without taking his eyes off his pad.

Ezil shifts, waiting for Zarkon to give her his attention, but he does not do so. She will argue and try to change his mind if he does, and Zarkon might just let her. Keith is a troublesome presence, and Zarkon should arrange him a place to work at a shop or a tea house somewhere, make sure he has housing, and pay him for the job he has done in the Palace.

And then never see him again.

But Keith is... intriguing, and Zarkon finds himself unwilling to allow him to leave just yet.

“Perhaps he could take care of the bath,” Zarkon muses, knowing it will offend Ezil's sensibilities, but she does not argue, even though Zarkon had expected her to do just that.

“I will see what openings we have available,” Ezil promises, to Zarkon's surprise. He had expected her to deny his suggestion, and he could have allowed her to have that victory to placate her and keep her in a relatively good mood.

She bows and leaves Zarkon to study the reports from the borders of their space in peace.

There is nothing unusual going on, and though Zarkon is rather proud of the peace he has brought his people, he cannot help but feel a little apologetic for the troops stationed so far from home with nothing interesting happening. Taking note of passing ships and merchants is not nearly as interesting when they pose no danger.

Zarkon expects Ezil to take care of the Keith problem. She will most likely teach Keith to clean windows or floors in the Imperial Wing, as the cleaning crew could always use more help. But not the bath, that is not something she would allow to happen, even if she did not voice her objections to Zarkon. It would go against the traditions the Galra hold dear, and it would be barely less scandalous than allowing an outworlder to tend the bath.

The message arriving from Gyrgan drags Zarkon from his musings. He frowns, confused, but when he reads the message his confusion gets an added edge of surprise. It is an invitation to the festival Gyrgan's people hold in celebration of completing another yearly trade expedition across their planet.

Zarkon had been there once, dragged to the festival by Alfor. That had been before Zarkon had agreed to join Alfor's little alliance. He might have gone again if Gyrgan had requested it, but they had all agreed that it would have been awkward after Alfor had befriended Blaytz — days after Zarkon and Blaytz had met on the one neutral ground between them and agreed to end the war between their people — and had wanted to introduce Blaytz to Trigel and Gyrgan by taking him to the festival. The war between their people might have been officially over, but their relations had still been tense, and adding copious amounts of alcohol to the mix had not seemed like a good idea.

So Zarkon had stayed behind, and let his friends have their fun without him.

And he had done so every year after that, even though he had been told by both Alfor and Gyrgan that he is always welcome in the festival. This is the first time Gyrgan has extended an official invitation to him, and declining it would not seem polite.

So Zarkon thanks Gyrgan for the invitation and promises to be there, and starts preparing himself for a large, purely social gathering.

 

* * *

 

Keith had assumed he'd get booted out of the Palace the second they returned to Daibazaal, but that hadn't happened. In fact a few days later Ezil came to find him, and she pulled him aside and grudgingly told him that he would be taught how to perform certain duties in the Imperial Wing, and she stressed that he would be doing substitute work only. “It is the Emperor's orders,” Ezil states before leaving Keith to finish his day of work.

Ezil trains him personally while Zarkon is off planet on some social gathering. No one has told Keith what kind of a gathering it is, exactly. He's not deemed important enough to know about it.

He learns about what to use to clean floors — beautiful dark stone or wood depending on the room — and windows. There are others tasked with caring for the fabrics used in the Wing, and though Ezil says he might learn about them some day for now he's to stay away from them.

Keith's first task in the Imperial Wing is to scrub the entire length of the long hallway made of the dark stone, leading to the locked, heavy doors separating the Wing from the rest of the Palace. He has to do it by hand, and Ezil walks by his side the whole time, instructing him and making that disappointed face no one in the staff wants to see.

After the hallway Keith gets to familiarize himself with the wooden floors of the library, and Ezil slaps his head with her pad when Keith pours a little too much of the fresh smelling cleaning agent onto the floor.

“I will have you personally hack and prepare the new wood and install it if you ruin the floor,” she threatens, and Keith is a lot more careful after that.

After a few days of learning the ways of the Imperial Wing, Azra corners Ezil and Keith and demands Keith's time. Ezil gives into her demands a lot faster than Keith expected, and she leaves Keith in Azra's care after warning him against doing anything he's not specifically told to do.

Azra doesn't say anything until Ezil is out of her sight, at which point she turns her curious eyes to Keith. “The Emperor told us to instruct you on how to care for the bath.”

Keith lifts an incredulous eyebrow, and Azra leans forward slightly. “He was most likely joking, since you’re a half-breed, but with him you don't take chances unless you're absolutely sure about his meaning.”

“Okay?”

Azra straightens up and cocks her head. “Then let's go.”

Keith follows her, intrigued and apprehensive at the same time. He's not sure why a bath would be an important thing worth of special care, but he reminds himself that he's dealing with an alien culture, and that he shouldn't expect them to follow human customs and share their values.

Azra leads him down the hallway and takes the right turn, and leads Keith to the end of the new, shorter hallway, to the set of pale doors decorated with dark, intricate details and lines.

She knocks, waits for five seconds, then — though Keith can't hear anything — bows her head slightly and yanks him through a simple, small door that's right on their left, almost hidden from view. “You can't go through in those clothes. It's against the rules,” she explains as she undoes her coat and hangs it on the hook near the door.

The room they're in is almost like a locker room; roundish with hooks on the walls and shelves underneath the hooks where they can fold their clothes and leave their boots, and lockers from where Azra selects them new clothes while Keith takes his coat off. He kicks his boots off next, and puts them on the lowest shelf.

Azra hands him a pile of dark red, thin clothes before unceremoniously stripping her own clothes off. Keith's eyes widen and he turns away, looking anywhere but her and clinging to the clothes she'd given him like they could offer him protection.

“Oh don't be like that,” Azra says, and Keith throws a hesitant glance in her direction. “I know you didn't grow up with us but surely you don't come from a world so prude you can't change your uniform in the presence of others?”

Keith bites his lip and hold the bundle of clothes tighter. “Of course not.”

“But?”

“I was taught not to undress in front of people of the opposite gender. Not to mention all the other genders there are and people’s personal preferences so you have to ask if it's okay and always assume it's not, and you're supposed to be polite enough to not look at someone if they do have to undress.” Keith shuts his mouth and bites the insides of his cheeks to keep quiet while Azra stares at him.

“Well, here we don't care about that kind of stuff so get naked and put the clothes on,” she says before stripping the rest of her clothes off. “Today would be better.”

Keith starts and nods, and while Azra is busy pulling the new uniform on, he takes his clothes off, leaving them crumpled on the floor while he pulls the loose, almost see through pants on. Next he wrestles the shirt on. If that's what you'd call it; the shirt is more like a piece of chiffon that stays on him because of the cool, golden metallic collar. The back is bare, and the fabric pools around Keith's waist so he can't even pull the shirt up to cover himself better.

“Put these on your ankles,” Azra instructs him and hands him wide, heavy looking golden anklets that match his collar, and Keith follows her example and puts the anklets on making sure that the hems of his pants stay inside them so that they don't flow around his ankles.

Once he's done Azra attaches a golden belt with an almost skirt like, deep red cloth attached to it that barely reached Keith's thigh on one side, and almost dragged on the floor one the other one.

“I suppose there's a reason for all of this?” Keith asks when Azra turns him around and starts pulling his hair into a tight braid.

“Thousands of years of tradition,” Azra replies, and Keith supposes that's a good enough reason.

It's definitely not one he's comfortable arguing with.

Azra leads Keith through a small door at the back of the room that's different form the one they entered through, and whispers for him to be quiet.

The room — hall really — they enter is wide and open, made of pale marble and with large windows covering one of the walls, showing a beautiful sight of a private garden. There are large throw pillows in one corner of the room, almost like a sitting area, and a stone bench with cushions arranged carefully on it against another wall.

The pillars that are more decorative than anything are placed so that they created a space that's almost like a foyer by separating the main area from the doors, and they circle the room, as if they had once held the ceiling up.

In the middle of the room there is a slightly raised, large hexagonal shape covered with a lid that blends against the floor almost perfectly.

Azra ushers Keith past all of it and to the open glass door that leads to the garden. She stops before Keith can step through the door. “We're here.”

Keith looks past her, only now seeing the five Galra in similar clothes to his tending to a clear watered small pond, carved into the stone floor of the garden and surrounded by natural greenery.

One of the Galra — an older woman with a severe expression — stands up and turns to them. She brushes her deep mauve clothes down and joins them inside.

“He cannot be here,” she states the second she lays her dark eyes on Keith.

Azra bows. “I understand your concerns, but the Lord Emperor has specifically requested we teach him to tend the bath.”

“He is a half-breed. That would be audacious. Some would say immoral.”

Keith would protest if Azra hadn't told him to keep his mouth shut earlier. He'd learned a while ago that while he is a Galra, he's considered to be a low caste one due to his mixed heritage. It's something he had dealt with even with the Blade of Marmora to an extent, so he doesn't take it too personally, even if he doesn't like it. If the Blade held prejudiced attitudes towards him, Keith can't really expect the Galra of the past to be much better, not with their lack of interaction with other species at this time, at least.

“The Lord Emperor was very clear in his order.”

“He will contaminate the water,” the woman argues.

Azra bows again. “I'm sure the Lord Emperor will be satisfied if we merely instruct Keith on basic maintenance of the room itself. He doesn't have to go near the water.”

The woman frowns and turns to study Keith, her frown deepening with every passing second. “If the Lord Emperor ordered it.”

Azra's shoulders relax, and she inclines her head. “I can take care of it. You needn't concern yourself with him.”

“See that I don't.” The woman returns outside with one last displeased look thrown Keith's way.

Azra lets out a breath and turns to Keith. “That's Gralva taken care of. Now comes the easy part.”

Keith's brow rises. “That was the hard part?”

Azra merely smiles at him. “I trust you've been taught how to clean floors.” Keith nods. “This is very much the same, but you will be using the supplies already here.”

Keith follows her to a hidden supply room near the door they came through. She lets Keith take in the cleaning supplies on the shelves, and Keith's attention lingers on the beautiful glass bottles lined on the shelves along one wall. “Those are for the bath. They must always be full, and there must always be enough of everything. It doesn't concern you, really, but if Gralva ever lets you do inventory just know that there's a list of what's been used and what's been ordered, and what's still on the shelves, and those lists must match.”

Keith nods. “What is that stuff? Soap?”

Azra laughs. “It's bath milk.”

Keith gives her a questioning looks, and she tilts her head, her ears twitching down as she purses her lips briefly. “Look. Base.” She points at the white bottles on the bottom shelf. “Relaxing” — she points the mint green bottle on the shelf above them next — “healing” — the silver bottles — “refreshing, energizing, calming, and restorative.” She points at the rest of the bottles — golden, lavender, pinkish peach, and shimmery light blue.

“You add one bottle of the base and those into the bath. You can mix them, but you need to remember not to add too much of anything. It's one bottle worth of the shimmer milk for a bottle of base. If you need to, you can add more base, and there can be more base than shimmer, but you never add more shimmer than base, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Not that you need to ever worry about that here, but there are other places that use bath milks too so knowing how it works is beneficial.” Azra turns to the shelf with the cleaning supplies. “This is a shelf you do need to worry about.”

Keith nods and pays close attention to everything she says about the supplies.

Afterwards she gives Keith a detailed tour of the hall with the bath that ends with them looking at the pond through a window. “So why's that so special?” Keith glances at Azra.

“The Palace was built around it,” Azra replies.

Keith turns to her and crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head.

Azra sighs and faces him. “Long ago, during the last war among our people, the first Lady Empress was severely injured. Her generals sent servants to find water, and they discovered this pond. They carried water from it to the Lady Empress and cleaned her wounds, and then, when she was dying, they brought her to the pond and placed her in it in hopes that the water would cleanse her. She grew healthy again, thanks to the water. The pond is sacred to us, and by tradition the ruler of our people bathes in the water so that they stay healthy and live a long live.”

Keith nods. It's a little odd to him that the Galra would think in such superstitious ways, but he thinks he gets the idea behind it. “Do they carry the water from the pond to the bath?” Keith still asks.

Azra snorts. “No, silly. We added pipes centuries ago. And a little secret you're not allowed to tell anyone.” She leans down, and Keith nods expectantly. “We don't always use the pond water for the bath either. It'd be wasteful.”

Keith smiles.

“Now come on, I'll show you all the places Ezil is too stuck up to let you into.” Azra heads across the room without waiting to see if Keith follows her, and Keith has to hurry after her.

 

* * *

 

Gralva lets Keith practice cleaning the floors of the bath hall, but she hovers and refuses to let Keith out of her sight.

Afterwards Keith gets to complain Azra about her, and she tells Keith that it's just the way Gralva is, has been before Azra ever came to work there. “She served the Lady Empress before so she takes her job very seriously. She had her job even before Ezil took over the staff.”

Ezil isn’t that old — Keith estimated her to be in the Galra equivalent of maybe in her 40's but he couldn't be sure — and if Gralva had served Zarkon's mother as well she was older than Keith had expected.

“She must be ancient,” he mutters, and Azra laughs as she shows Keith out of the Imperial Wing.

Keith heads back to his room, and Ravik is already waiting for him there, sprawled on his own bed in nothing but his underwear, a glass of juice tangling from one hand and a pad in another. “How was the Imperial Wing today?”

“Same as yesterday,” Keith replies and slumps on his own bed. “If you spill the juice on the floor you're cleaning it up.”

Ravik hums in acknowledgment, but he doesn't lift his eyes from his pad. “I'm going to have an off day tomorrow, remember?”

“Yeah,” Keith replies.

“Do you need anything from the city?” Ravik glances at Keith, lifting a bored eyebrow.

Keith thinks about it, but eventually shakes his head. “I'm good.”

“Suit yourself.” Ravik returns to reading his pad, and Keith flops face first onto his own bed.

He's gone from a Paladin of Voltron and an agent of the Blade of Marmora to cleaning floors and windows, and he's not sure how to feel about it. All he knows for sure is that he's extremely tired, and that he needs a lot of rest.

“I'm gonna sleep,” he tells Ravik, who makes a sound that might have been acknowledgment, and Keith strips his clothes off before curling on the bed.

Tomorrow he'll be doing a shift cleaning the tapestries in the East Wing, and then he'll have a break before he has to go and do his first official night shift cleaning the halls of the Imperial Wing.

He's not looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

 

Zarkon returns home late at night, tired and on edge from having been forced to talk to dozens of people, many who had no sense of personal space or had such strange manners he could not be sure if they were trying to strike a friendship or start a war as they had greeted him.

Luckily Alfor had been there to shield him from the worst of it all, and when Alfor had to go talk to people Zarkon did not have good relations with, Gyrgan had appeared by Zarkon's side.

Zarkon likes Gyrgan more than most people. He is a calm and a patient presence, and during the festival the fact that he is one of the few people that make Zarkon seem smaller than he is proved to be an advantage. All he had to do was tactically position himself behind Gyrgan to avoid certain people.

Still, he is glad to be home where people make sense and the food does not burn his mouth.

Zarkon will go to bed, and sleep through the morning, and there is nothing that is going to bother him, or cause him a headache —

Zarkon stops, fighting back the urge to groan or doing something equally un-Emperor like.

Keith is sprawled on his stomach in the middle of Zarkon's hallway.

Of course he is, there was no way Zarkon was going to enjoy a quiet night at home. Of course he would run into the one person in the entire Palace who had an uncanny ability of confusing him.

“I assume you are dead as any other reason for your presence here would not be acceptable.”

Keith groans and lifts his head. “I'm sorry to disappoint you. My pen rolled somewhere and I just... I'm tired, okay? I've been up and cleaning and doing chores all day. I'll make sure the floor won't have an imprint of my face on it.”

Zarkon blinks. He has no idea how to respond to that.

“And you're the one who had me assigned here,” Keith continues, and Zarkon tells himself that he is merely tired after the festival, and that is the only reason he forgot he had indeed ordered Ezil to assign Keith to work in the Imperial Wing. He had thought it would please Alfor, and for a half-breed it would be a unique and impressive thing to have in his resume, should Keith ever leave the Palace.

“You will not find it by sprawling on my hallway,” Zarkon points out, not knowing what else he could say.

Keith has the audacity to roll his eyes. “I know. I was just resting.”

Zarkon bristles, and blames the exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders for it. “Go rest in your bed. And fetch Azra, I require her assistance.”

Keith's ears twitch back and he bites his lip, and Zarkon should order Ezil to tell him not to do that. “Azra thought you wouldn't be back until tomorrow so she went out with Sona. The gardener's assistant?”

Zarkon knows who Sona is, but he does not tell Keith so. “Then you will have to do.”

The only reason Zarkon considers it a not horrible idea doomed to end in a disaster is that he is too tired to do so.

For a moment, Keith looks like he wants to question Zarkon's decision, but he stays silent and pushes himself off the floor, and does his odd mix of a curtsy and a bow. “Whatever my Lord Emperor requires.”

To Zarkon's ear, it sounds mocking, but there is nothing in Keith's expression that backs his assessment up. Perhaps it is merely Keith's disrespect of Zarkon's position as the Emperor showing through.

Keith follows Zarkon through the hallways, all the way into his living quarters. As Zarkon expected, Keith gawks at the room, and Zarkon kind of wishes he could decipher his expressions better. He would like to know if he should defend his living space or not.

“Is there a problem?” Zarkon asks, satisfied he came up with a way to assess Keith's opinion without asking for it.

Keith's eyes snap to him, and he shakes his head. “No. It's just, um, it's not what I expected.” Zarkon frowns, and Keith hurries to raise his hands, his ears tilting back in submission. “Not in a bad way. I just... it's nice. It looks very comfy. Um...”

Zarkon walks away, satisfied with the knowledge that Keith was not going to ridicule his living arrangements. His belongings have already been brought there, and Azra will be unpacking everything come morning. Zarkon gets his pad from one of the bags and checks it to see if Ezil has sent him the latest reports. Surprisingly she has not, but Zarkon suspects it is because he is home early, so she had no need to provide the reports to him just yet.

Keith is still standing where Zarkon left him, and for a tick Zarkon wonders why he is still there before he remembers that Keith is not Azra, and he does not know what Zarkon needs.

“Fetch me a cup of herbal tea, make sure Ezil knows I will expect her to have all the necessary reports for me first thing in the morning. You will also make sure Azra will not bother me too early in the morning. And make sure the kitchen staff will not bring my breakfast until I call for it.” Zarkon levels Keith with an expectant look.

Keith seems unsure, but he still stands straight and nods. “Anything else?”

Zarkon considers it for a moment. “No. Azra will take care of everything else in the morning.”

Keith nods again, and hurries out of the doors, leaving Zarkon alone in the blessed quiet of his quarters. He wanders to the seating arrangement by the windows. He takes the two steps up to the higher level, and crosses the wooden floor to the soft couch his father had custom ordered to fit the decor his mother had preferred. Zarkon had not had the heart to remove it from the space it was designed to fit.

Zarkon sits on the couch, allowing himself to let out a deep breath and slouch, even if his clothes might get crumbled because of it. He had decided against putting on his armor for the travel back, opting to wear a formal suit instead. Now he faces the problem of being shrouded in several layers of black and deep red and purple clothing, with a too heavy coat that took time to put on — and will take time to remove as well — and his boots are too constricting after a day of standing, and the cape's high collar tied around his neck is suffocating and heavy.

He should have gone with the armor after all.

Keith's return distracts Zarkon enough to make him forget about his clothing issues for a moment. Keith is carrying a teacup that at least looks and smells like the kind of tea Zarkon prefers, and he brings it to Zarkon without a word.

Zarkon does not tell Keith no when he sits down on one of the armchairs, even though he should. He should not allow a half-breed to bend the rules and the established code of conduct. He has already done enough of that by allowing Keith to work in the Imperial Wing.

“I left the kitchen staff notes and messages telling them not to bother you in the morning. I also sent Azra a message that you're back. And I left a message for Ezil so she'll know to get your reports to you in the morning,” Keith says.

Zarkon inclines his head in acknowledgment and sips his tea. He is unsure if he likes or hates the fact that Keith seems to have an unusual knack for making rather good tea. Usually people have to try it a few times — Azra had taken months — to get the tea up to Zarkon's standards. But not Keith. He seems to do it naturally.

Maybe it is because Alfor had instructed him on the matter.

Zarkon focuses on his cup instead of Keith, and the silence that falls into the room is peaceful.

When Zarkon looks up again, ready to tell Keith it is time for him to go, the words die in his mouth. Keith is fast asleep, his breathing coming in soft, quiet huffs, his head lolling against his shoulder, and his ears twitching minutely every now and again.

The right thing to do would be to wake Keith up and tell him to go to bed. But Keith looks too peaceful, and Zarkon has had a long day, and should Ezil or Azra arrive before Zarkon wakes up, Keith will be the first thing they see and they will wake him up, and Keith will make sure no one bothers Zarkon.

So Zarkon gets up and sets his teacup on the low, oval table in the middle of the seating arrangement, and after a moment of hesitation he gently picks Keith up and moves him to the couch. Keith does not stir, and Zarkon feels a little better for not waking him up.

As an afterthought Zarkon removes his cape and drapes it over Keith, and brushes the loose hair from Keith's face. Keith sighs and leans into his touch, and it makes Zarkon still. It is not something Keith should be doing.

And it definitely should not warm up something deep and long forgotten inside Zarkon.

Zarkon snatches his hand back and turns on his heels, and hurries away from Keith. He strides down the two steps to the main floor, crosses it, and takes the three steps up to another level, and walks between two bookshelves that hide the door to his bedroom.

He sheds his clothes and folds them haphazardly on the seat pushed against the wall near the closet doors before curling on the bed that he pretends is not too big and empty, and pointedly ignores Keith's presence in the other room.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up to find Ezil glaring down at him with a shocked and infuriated frown on her face. Keith blinks and rubs his eyes, wondering what he's done to earn that particular expression so early in the morning.

He sits up and freezes, the question as to what’s wrong dying on his lips.

He's not in his own bed. Come to think of it, he's not even on the chair he'd fallen asleep on last night. Zarkon must have moved him to the couch. Which means that Zarkon must have picked Keith up, carried him, and laid him back down.

He'd even left his cape for Keith to use as a blanket.

Keith's fingers curl around the dark fabric, and he swallows. Somehow Zarkon letting him sleep on his couch is the nicest thing Keith has experienced in a long time.

“You should not be here,” Ezil grits through her teeth, and Keith clings to the cape a little tighter.

“I promised Zarkon — the Emperor — I'd make sure no one bothers him,” Keith replies. It's not even a lie, exactly. “I'd rather not fight you over it,” he adds.

Ezil straightens up and scowls. “A half-breed should not be in the Emperor's private rooms. And it is not your job to take care of matters like these. You should have woken me up the moment the Emperor returned.”

Keith nods. He knows there's no point in arguing with Ezil, or telling her that Zarkon had ordered him to assist him last night.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Keith says.

Ezil narrows her eyes. “Now get going. You can sleep in your own bed.”

Keith hurries to get up, but stops as soon as he's on his feet. “The Emperor ordered me to make sure no one bothers him and to be here to cover for Azra.”

It's not true and Keith assumes Ezil knows it too, but to his surprise she sighs softly and her shoulders slump. “Well, we wouldn't want to go against the Emperor's orders. I will call Azra back immediately, so do not get comfortable.”

Keith swallows and bites his lip, and nods. It's stupid to lie about something like this, he knows it, and he's not sure why he did it. If Zarkon finds out about it Keith is going to be in a lot of trouble.

Ezil leaves Keith where he is with a one last warning glare.

Keith lets out a relieved breath and slumps back on the couch. He doesn't feel comfortable wandering around the room. He'd taken in the soft carpets, the shelves of books and the furniture last night. The beautifully detailed burgundy curtains match the carpeting and the wooden furniture, and the shelves are filled with books and knickknacks, and there are a few paintings hanging on the walls as well.

It's all very cozy and lived in, and Keith likes it more than any other place else in the Palace.

Keith remains huddled on the couch, dozing off and just staring into nothing until Zarkon emerges from his bedroom, looking like he just woke up and dressed in a deep red robe with golden detailing that drags on the floor behind him. He hasn't even straightened the tall collar of it out.

“Morning,” Keith says, and if the way Zarkon starts and his eyes widen he hadn't realized Keith’s still there. It makes Keith's lips quirk up before he can stop it, and Zarkon's ears twitch down in response.

“Ezil wanted to see you, I think. She was kinda busy being mad at me,” Keith says. “I told her you didn't want to be bothered yet.”

Zarkon glances around before wandering to Keith and sitting on one of the chairs. Keith realizes — perhaps a little too late — that he's still huddled under Zarkon's cape, and he starts, intending to get out from under it before thinking better of it. Zarkon's already seen it, and if Keith discards it now it will be a little too obvious.

“Fetch my breakfast,” Zarkon orders, his voice rough from sleep, and rubs his eyes. Keith nods and stands up, and folds the cape on the couch before heading out of the door, glad for the excuse to leave.

A quick trip to the kitchen later — the staff had prepared Zarkon's breakfast beforehand — Keith returns with a heavy tray to finds Zarkon hasn't moved from his spot.

“Do you need anything else?” Keith asks as he sets the tray down and stands aside.

“Call Ezil back and fetch my pad from my bedside.” Zarkon reaches to get the teacup.

Keith calls Ezil back, and after making sure Zarkon doesn't need him to do anything else he heads to the direction of his bedroom door, dreadful and kind of curious as to what he'll see. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised to find a normal if a large bedroom, with a walk in closet and what to Keith looks like a love seat, but he doubts that's what the Galra call it. The bed is big and unmade, and the dark sheets look expensive and comfortable.

Keith starts and hurries to the nightstand, and picks the pad laying on it. He heads straight to the door and steps through it, only to be stopped by Ezil entering the room in fast, determined strides.

Keith stays behind the bookshelves while she briefs Zarkon on the events of the Palace. He doesn't feel like interrupting her and earning more of her disappointed and angry glares. Zarkon waves her off as soon as she's done, and Keith bites his lip, thinking of an explanation as to why he hadn't just joined them.

“What of the half-breed?” Ezil asks instead of leaving, and Keith freezes.

“What of him?” Zarkon replies, perfectly casual.

“He should not have been allowed here.” There's a cautious edge to Ezil's voice. “It is not appropriate.”

Zarkon is quiet for a second too long for his answer to seem not thought out. “I requested his assistance because Azra was not available, and he was there. I found my need for rest more important than thousands of years of archaic tradition.”

“But allowing him to sleep here was — “

“My decision. And it was clearly the right one since you were unable to stay away and allow me to rest this morning.”

Keith flinches at Zarkon's sharp tone. It reminds him too much of the Zarkon of his reality, and he takes a step back without thinking, his body tense and ready to spring to action if need be. He loses sight of Ezil, but his ears perk up, focusing on each and every sound of the room.

“I understand, Sire,” Ezil says. “I was merely concerned. The public would not be pleased to hear of him being here and with their uncertainty with the Alliance, I would hate for them to grow more concerned. I meant no insult.”

“I will worry about the public. You concern yourself with the Palace running smoothly,” Zarkon replies, but the sharpness has left his voice, and Keith relaxes minutely.

“Of course, my Lord.” Ezil sounds relieved as well, and Keith can practically see her bow before her steps retreat across the floor and out of the room.

Keith waits a few seconds more before walking out from behind the bookshelves. Zarkon doesn't acknowledge him, and Keith tries not to show his cautiousness as he approaches him. He stops at a respectable distance and clears his throat as he hands the pad to Zarkon, unsure if he should be saying something.

Zarkon glances up from his teacup, and takes the pad without a word. Keith wonders if he could escape and make it to the door before Zarkon decided he needs Keith to do something else next.

“I do not appreciate eavesdropping,” Zarkon says before Keith can make up his mind.

“Sorry,” Keith says and looks down at his feet. “I didn't want to interrupt you. I won't say anything to anyone.”

“I trust you will not.” Zarkon sets his tea down and turns to study Keith. “I want what is best for my people,” he starts, then stops, almost like he thinks better of speaking up.

Keith nods and sits down on the chair opposite of Zarkon's. “That's what a good leader is supposed to do.”

Zarkon inclines his head, a small smile grazing his lips for just a second. “As you have not grown up with us, you might not understand this, but we have lived in seclusion for much of our history. We have had trade deals with other races, and several wars as we have expanded our empire, but this Alliance of Alfor's that we have recently joined is... it is not something we have ever done. It is a point of anxiety to my people, and I cannot ignore it.”

Keith nods again, but he doesn't say anything in case Zarkon wants to continue.

“Your presence in my private rooms is technically not against any rules or laws, but there is a cultural stigma to it that you should be aware of. We built a strict social structure that we all live by millennia ago. We need it to keep our society from crumbling into internal warfare and destruction. It is not unheard of for members to move between the social classes, but when it comes to you, it is a trickier situation.” Zarkon frowns, and Keith shifts.

“Because of my mixed heritage?”

“Yes. You are not one of us, and you are not an outworlder, which makes you an anomaly that is hard for our kind to place in any category. My people mean you no harm, but they do not know how to deal with you either. I suspect that in the future — as we interact with more races — your kind will be more easily accepted, but as of now that is not the case.” Zarkon cocks his head and regards Keith with a thoughtful expression. “But perhaps they will grow accepting of you as they get used to you.”

Keith smiles. “I hope so. I actually like it here. People have been nice to me for the most part.” Ravik especially, after he got over the shock of having to share a room with a half-Galra.

Zarkon's expression softens and he looks away a little too fast to be natural. “I believe you have a job to do, so you should be going.”

Keith blinks at the abrupt change in subject, but he lets it slide and stands up. He heads across the floor without a word, only stopping at the door. He turns to Zarkon and offers him a small smile. “I hope you have a good day.”

He hurries out of the room before Zarkon can reply, berating himself for saying anything and not understanding why he even spoke up.

 

* * *

 

Ravik shows Keith around the City, and it's just as breathtaking as the Citadel is, except everything is more modern — at least by Keith's understanding of Galran architecture — and there is a lot more traffic going on. The people they pass barely spare Keith a glance, and there's something so mundane and ordinary about it all that Keith slows down to just stare so often that Ravik grabs his arm and drags him along, muttering something about Keith being raised in a cave as they go.

Keith lets Ravik take him to get a manicure, and then drag him back to the Palace since they have a shift to do that evening and they're already risking running late.

“Do you want to come do a shift in the Arena with me later this month?” Ravik asks while they're changing into their uniforms.

Keith stills, a chill running down his spine. “The what?”

Ravik shrugs his coat on and turns to face Keith with a patient look on his face. “The Arena. They're going to be doing a reenactment show and they need staff to clean up and stuff. The pay's really good and it's usually fun. Plus we get to see the show without paying anything.”

Keith stares at him, barely remembering this isn't his reality, and that the Arena doesn't necessarily mean people being forced to fight to death. “Sure. If it's okay with Ezil, that is.”

“She'll be okay with it if you let her know about it early.”

Keith nods and gets back to dressing. Ezil is still less than pleased with him, but maybe she'll let Keith go. It'd be interesting to see what the Arena was like before the Galra turned evil.

So Keith goes through his shift, keeping his head down and doing his job to the best of his abilities, and once he's done he goes to find Ezil. She's in her office, like Keith suspected she would be. She's not exactly thrilled to see Keith, but she sets her pen down nonetheless, and waves him in.

“Ravik asked me to go do a shift in the Arena with him at the end of this month. I was hoping that'd be okay. I'd like yo see what it's like,” Keith explains.

Ezil narrows her eyes, but she considers Keith's request, and eventually inclines her head. “I'm sure that can be arranged. And the Emperor does want you to gain more work experience.”

Keith nods and bites his lip. He wants to ask Ezil if she's still mad at him for helping Zarkon out a few weeks ago, but he's not sure it would go over well. She has barely spared a word to him until now.

“It is the Emperor's decision who he allows in his space, and though I think it was bad form of him to allow you in his rooms, I cannot change what happened, and it is within his rights to have you there,” Ezil says in a tense voice, as if she had read Keith’s mind.

Keith shifts and looks down. “I wasn't aware that there were rules about me not going to the Emperor's rooms at the time.”

“Well, now you know. Do not do that mistake again.” Ezil levels Keith with a hard look, and he nods. “I will arrange your schedule so that you may go to the Arena, and I will inform them of your arrival as well. I am sure Ravik will take care of you and show you around.”

Keith nods again. “I'll make sure of that.”

Ezil's expression softens, and she waves Keith away. “Go on, now. You are keeping me from work.”

Keith leaves her to her work, and makes his way back to his and Ravik's room. He'll need a shower before he goes to bed, and he'll need a good night’s rest if he wants to be ready for the morning shift that waits him.

Maybe the Arena won't be bad. Maybe it'll just be some harmless fun between the Galra, and the name just carried over when Zarkon decided to take over the universe. Ravik had said they'd be doing reenactments, after all. That doesn't sound too bad.

Keith prays it won't be too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I haven't been able to edit or write in the past few weeks, I haven't gotten around to finishing the next chapter yet. Hopefully I'll get it done this weekend, and I can edit it next week, though. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> I hope you liked this!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an absolutely amazing beta for this chapter and the remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> I rewrote parts of this chapter about three times and raged over this whole thing once. But I got this done! Yay!!

Zarkon stands still and does not frown, even though Yazrik is crossing several lines by giving orders to the generals instead of allowing Zarkon to do so. He will have to reprimand Yazrik when they are alone, which should be soon.

As he expected, Yazrik dismisses the generals after a dobash and turns to Zarkon with a smile on his lips. Zarkon waits until the last of the generals have left before letting his disappointment show on his face. Yazrik's smile falls, and he bows. “I have forgotten my place. Forgive me, sire, I meant no disrespect.”

Zarkon scowls at him, but decides to let it go. “They are your generals.”

Yazrik bows again. “Still, their Emperor should have been the one to give the orders.”

Zarkon cannot disagree with him, so he stays silent. Yazrik takes it as an invitation to approach him.

Zarkon does not stop him, more out of curiosity than any desire to be near him. Yazrik steps up the dais, watching Zarkon closely as he comes to stand by his side. Hesitantly, he touches Zarkon's arm, tilting his ears back just a fraction. “I do hope you forgive me.”

Zarkon looks down at where Yazrik's hand rests on his arm. “You are forgetting your place again”

Yazrik steps back, bowing his head as he withdraws his palm from Zarkon's arm. “I apologize.”

Zarkon glances at him, and for a tick he entertains the idea of not responding, but ultimately he decides against it. “Do not make such a mistake again.”

Yazrik inclines his head and crosses his arms behind his back, a polite smile playing on his lips. “I’ll do my best.”

Zarkon studies him, keeping his own expression carefully neutral. Yazrik is not unattractive by any means: he is tall, almost as tall as Zarkon, with well defined features and a pleasant smile. He is also smart and well educated, but Zarkon cannot find it in himself to return his affections, and he does his best not to encourage Yazrik.

“Would you do me the honor of walking me to my ship?” Yazrik asks undeterred. After considering his proposition, Zarkon inclines his head and leads Yazrik out of the throne room. Yazrik tells him of his work, and Zarkon listens to him indulgently, asking him clarifying questions every now and again to be polite.

He may not encourage Yazrik's affections, but he is not denying them either, as he sees no real reason to do so — not yet, at least — and Yazrik is intelligent enough to realize that Zarkon does not return his sentiments; he is simply persistent and blessedly tactful in his pursuit.

Even if it will never lead to anything.

 

* * *

 

Keith stills while his ears perk up at the sound of the chatter and the approaching footsteps. He hops down from the small ladder he'd been given to reach the artwork hanging in the Western hallways when Zarkon rounds the corner with a Galra wearing insignia, defining him as a commander. Keith had been relieved to discover the insignias are still mostly the same; making it easier for him to identify the ranks of the military personnel that sometimes walk the hallways of the Palace.

Keith waves before he remembers he's not supposed to interact with Zarkon, but Zarkon merely gives him a long suffering, disappointed look as he slows down. It's the commander with him that pulls a sword out and aims it at Keith's head.

Keith pulls his hands up to cover his face and scrunches his eyes shut, not truly expecting to be struck but his reflexes kick in anticipating it all the same.

The sound of metal striking metal fills the air for a second before a deadly silence falls, and Keith lowers his hands to see what happened. His eyes widen in shock and surprise; Zarkon has raised his arm to protect Keith, and the sword struck him instead.

Keith's eyes drift from the sword, to the commander, then to Zarkon, unsure of what should worry him the most.

“He is a member of my staff and new to our ways,” Zarkon says, perfectly calm, like he hadn't just gotten his arm nearly chopped off.

“He's a disrespectful half-breed,” the commander replies as a confused frown falls onto his face.

“And you have just struck your Emperor with a sword.” Zarkon levels the commander with a withering look, then the commander yanks the sword back and bows.

“I apologize. It was not my intention to cause you any harm.”

Keith glances at the scar like scratch on Zarkon's armor and reaches over to touch it without thinking. The commander's ears flatten and his mouth turns into a hard line, but Zarkon let's Keith do as he pleases, going so far as to turn his arm slightly so that Keith gets a better look at the damage to his armor.

“You have a ship to catch,” Zarkon says, still dangerously calm, and the commander starts before bowing and — with one last apology — goes on his way.

Zarkon watches his officer disappear around the corner before turning his displeased eyes to Keith. “You must learn your place.”

“Sorry,” Keith mutters, his fingers still tracing the damage on the armor. “I just wanted to ask if it was okay for me to go to the Castleship when it comes here.”

Ezil had mentioned the Alteans arrival when she had ordered everyone to make the Palace spotless and presentable for its guests.

Keith misses the safety and familiarity of the Castleship, but asking Ezil if visiting the Castleship is okay isn't something he thinks he should do. Zarkon is the one who is friends with Alfor, so he would know if Alfor is okay with him visiting the Castleship.

Zarkon lets out a heavy breath and drops his arm. “I will inform Alfor of your desire to visit, and should he agree to it, you must make sure it does not interfere with your duties.”

Keith takes a step back, stands straighter, and nods. “Thank you.”

“Now get back to doing your chores, and consider finally learning proper etiquette.” Zarkon levels Keith with a stern look, and Keith nods again.

“I will,” he promises, then hurries to add, “my Lord.”

Zarkon studies him for a second longer before continuing on his way without a word. Keith watches him go, only allowing himself to groan and shake his head after Zarkon has disappeared around the corner.

He needs to start paying more attention to the proper code of conduct: not following it is becoming hazardous to his heath.

 

* * *

 

Alfor and his entourage arrives a few days later, but Keith isn't allowed to go greet them. Ezil informs him that he can visit the Castleship the day after his shift, and Keith can barely sleep that night. He's excited and nervous, and Ravik groans and rolls his eyes at him.

When Keith finally gets the chance to go to the Castleship, he doesn't waste a second before running out of the Palace doors and hurrying towards the ship docks by the northern end of the City. He takes the transport to a stop near the docks, having confirmed the route a dozen times that morning.

The transport itself is almost like a train, speeding quietly above the hustle of the city on rails that run and intersect throughout the entire city. Keith finds a free seat in the last cart, making sure he's got a window on his left to know when he would be arriving to his stop. “You'll see the Castleship about two dobashes before the stop. It'll be on your left and all you have to do is backtrack on foot,” Ravik had told him. “Show the guards at the gates your staff ID and they should let you in without you having to go through the check-in process.”

Keith clutches the ID chip — a flat, translucent oval shaped device that emits a soft purplish light like most of the Galran devices do — in his hand and focuses on the view of the passing buildings as the train moves through the city. The people there spare Keith a few curious looks, but for the most part ignore him. They seem tired from a long day at work, or they're about to start their jobs as the sun slowly sets and the night life begins.

It takes about fifteen minutes for Keith to spot the familiar white of the Castleship, easily recognizable among the dark colored Galra ships and the earthy tones of the densely packed city itself. He watches the Castleship pass in the distance and hurries to the cart's doors as soon as the Castleship falls behind. He's the first one out of the doors when the train stops and he hurries down the stairs to the ground level instead of waiting for the elevator.

Soon he's running down the street towards his destination, dodging people and trying his best not to get lost. Eventually he sees the gates to the ship docks, breathing a sigh of relief as he rushes to them.

The guards are suspicious of Keith even after they scan his ID chip, and they call the Palace and the Castleship to confirm that Keith is supposed to be there.

After they've done all their checks they let Keith pass grudgingly, and Keith thanks them before hurrying towards the Castleship. There's an Altean guard waiting for him, and he smiles at Keith pleasantly as he shows him inside. “King Alfor has granted you access to the main areas of the ship.”

“Thanks,” Keith replies, and wanders deeper into the ship. His feet take him down the familiar route to the kitchen, and he greets the staff having a snack there. Everyone is politely curious about Keith, and they offer Keith a pastry filled with lime jam that he eats while making small talk with the Alteans.

Once he's finished his pastry, Keith excuses himself and goes to wander around the familiar halls of the Castleship. Eventually, he ends up by the doors of the training room, and to his surprise he’s been given allowance to enter it. So he goes in and stands in the middle of the room, remembering the last time he was there, sparring with Shiro.

The memory fills him with a quiet sort of longing and he sighs and hangs his head as he crosses his arms. It won't do him any good to dwell on the memories of his friends. He needs to focus on finding a way to get back to them.

“What's on your mind?” Alfor asks, and Keith's head snaps up as he swirls around to face him.

“I was... nothing. I was just looking around.” Keith offers him a sheepish smile, and after a moment, Alfor smiles back.

He clasps his hands behind his back and takes a step closer to Keith. “You know, if you want to learn how to fight, Zarkon is a pretty good teacher.”

Keith shakes his head. “I'm good, thanks.”

Alfor smiles pleasantly. “If you say so.”

Keith offers him an apologetic look and takes a step towards the door. “I should go.”

“But I just told Zarkon you are here,” Alfor replies.

Keith stops and stares at him with wide eyes. “Why?”

“Because he asked if you had arrived and where you were.” Alfor shrugs. “Maybe he wants to check up on you.”

Keith huffs. “I doubt that.”

Alfor raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, regarding Keith closely. “He does care about you, you know? You're on a ship that's for all intents and purposes foreign soil, and you're one of his people — his staff — and to Zarkon the only thing that truly matters are his people.”

Keith looks away, not wanting Alfor to see the shame in his eyes. He's been with the Galra for a few months now, but he's still got trouble accepting that Zarkon isn't the Zarkon of his reality sometimes, and he hadn't even thought that Zarkon might be concerned for his safety just because Keith is one of his people and a member of his staff.

So Keith waits in the room, pondering on his life and how things have gone from weird, to insane, to horrible, to... whatever it is his life is now.

Soon enough Zarkon enters the room with Gyrgan of all people in tow. Alfor smiles and waves at them. “I was just suggesting to Keith that you could teach him some basics.”

Zarkon's brow furrows, the act of it more obvious now that he's not wearing his crown. He hasn't even bothered to change out of what Ezil calls his formal dress uniform; it's layers upon layers of varying shades of nearly black purple and silver clothing with long sleeves and high collars, a coat that looks almost like armor in itself, the tails of it flaring past his knees, and a cape that's cut in a way that makes it perpetually draped over his shoulders and arms drags along the floor, undoubtedly gathering dust.

Keith thinks it looks good on him, even if it comes off as a little too much.

“I don't need — “

“He is a Galra, so he should at least know the basics of combat,” Alfor cuts in a little too loudly, shutting Keith up.

Zarkon blinks, his eyes darting between Keith and Alfor. Keith is relieved to find he's not the only one who doesn't like the idea of him teaching Keith to fight. Keith doesn't even _need_ to be taught how to fight.

“I don't —“ Keith starts, but Alfor waves him off.

“It might be fun,” Gyrgan says, and Zarkon throws a glare at him as he stands up taller. “And good for him.” Gyrgan nods in Keith's direction, and Zarkon's ears flatten for a tick before he gets them under control.

Zarkon turns his attention to Keith, and Keith lets his dislike of the situation show on his face. Maybe it will make Zarkon insist on not training Keith even more.

Zarkon meets Keith's eyes, and something in his expression shifts. “Alright,” he says, and Keith's mouth falls open.

No. No way. This isn't happening.

Alfor grins while Gyrgan takes Zarkon's cape and coat.

Keith chuckles nervously. “Really, I don't need — “

“Humor me,” Alfor cuts in, and Keith throws him a glare before he can think better of it.

No one tells him off for it, though the line of Zarkon's mouth hardens in disapproval. He supposes he could let Zarkon show him one or two moves and pretend he doesn't know the basics of hand to hand combat.

Alfor snickers and joins Gyrgan in the sidelines when Zarkon joins Keith, his expression displeased and inpatient. “Are you ready?”

Keith shrugs and spreads his arms. “I guess so.”

The next thing Keith knows is that he's being lifted from the ground and tossed across the room. He slams on the floor with a pained grunt, his left arm and hip taking most of the impact.

“You are supposed to teach him,” Alfor complains somewhere behind Keith, his voice carrying just a little bit too much amusement to be entirely sincere.

Keith grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet. Zarkon smirks at him, and even though it lasts for a fraction of a second, it makes anger flash hot within Keith, and he feels his ears flatten as the line between this reality and his own blur for a moment.

“I think you pissed him off,” Gyrgan muses, not sounding concerned at all.

Keith bares his teeth and lunges at Zarkon as fast as he can. Screw playing along if he's going to be picked on and thrown around.

Zarkon — to his credit — recovers from his shock a lot faster than Keith expected, and he dodges Keith's initial lunge. He's not so good at dodging Keith's next assault, but Keith knows it's only because Keith's a lot closer to him and he might have put Keith's initial assault up to Keith's anger, not skill.

Keith lunges at Zarkon again, but instead of bothering to kick or punch Zarkon, Keith jumps on him and wraps his legs around his middle and puts his entire weight into getting Zarkon off balance. By some miracle, Keith succeeds and they end up sprawled on the ground. Keith pulls his blade from his belt in one swift motion and aims it at Zarkon's throat before he can recover from the surprise of Keith's assault.

They stare at each other, Zarkon's eyes wide with shock and Keith's narrowed in anger. Zarkon doesn't react, but something changes in his eyes, something Keith can't identify, and he lets Keith hold the blade on his throat and relaxes against the floor.

Slowly, Keith pulls the blade back, anger evaporating as he becomes aware of what he's just done. He looks away and scrambles to his feet. “Sorry. I — Sorry.”

He glances at Alfor and Gyrgan who are wearing matching, shocked expressions. “I'm really sorry,” Keith repeats, wondering if he should be helping Zarkon up. “I tried to tell you I know how to fight but none of you gave me a chance to finish my sentence.”

Zarkon blinks at him, still wearing that expression Keith can't read.

Keith leans down to grab his arm and pulls him up. As soon as Zarkon is standing, Keith mutters another apology before bolting for the door. He gets about halfway there before turning on his heels and hurrying back to Zarkon.

Keith offers Zarkon his own version of a bow, his eyes fixed on the floor. “My Lord,” he doesn't wait for a reply before bolting out the door.

 

* * *

 

The silence Keith leaves behind is deafening, and Zarkon can do nothing but stare after him.

The world shifted just then, and Zarkon does not know how to deal with it. He stares at the closed door, knowing his face betrays his shock, but he was unable to find it in himself to care. Keith had just taken him down faster than anyone has in a long time and then held a blade to his throat.

It makes no sense. Keith is merely a servant. A young, disrespectful, half-breed servant who had just taken Zarkon down in a matter of ticks.

“Are you alright?” Gyrgan's concerned voice breaks through the haze of Zarkon's thoughts. Slowly, he inclines his head, unsure if it is the truth but not knowing what else to do either.

“Should I do something about him?” Alfor asks, and Zarkon takes in a sharp breath and tears his eyes from the door.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Alfor sounds so concerned that Zarkon glances at him.

“Yes. I... I underestimated his abilities. The mistake was mine,” he says, hating how unsure his voice sounds.

Alfor and Gyrgan share a look.

“You seem a little shaken up,” Gyrgan says.

Zarkon starts to shrug before he realizes what he is doing, and stops. “I am not shaken. I am perfectly fine.”

Alfor's lips quirk up in that way Zarkon has learned never brings anything good with it. “You look like you just fell in love.”

Zarkon balks, his eyes widening in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

Alfor has the audacity to make himself appear innocent. “You look like you fell in love,” he repeats. “It's sweet. I'm very happy for you.”

Zarkon bares his teeth for a tick before he is able to stop himself. “You will stop talking like that unless you want me to leave you at the mercy of the many people who wish to kill you.”

Alfor smiles. “I think he's a good fit for you. Give it a few years and the Galra will accept him as your partner as well.”

Zarkon stares at Alfor, his expression flat, blinking slowly. “You are a horrible friend.”

Alfor snorts. “I'm an amazing friend and you know it.”

Zarkon frowns, and Alfor flashes him a grin before heading out the door. Zarkon has to hurry after him while Gyrgan follows them at a leisurely pace.

Alfor glances over his shoulder and strides down the hallway even faster. Fortunately, Zarkon has longer legs and hundreds of thousands of years of evolution as the most efficient predator to ever come from Daibazaal on his side.

But Alfor has Lurana, who has just rounded the corner and is smiling brightly at them all.

“Hello,” she says, and Zarkon stops a step away from Alfor while he hugs Lurana.

“Good evening.” Zarkon offers her a bow of his head, and as soon as Alfor lets go of her she returns the sentiment.

“I hope you're feeling better,” Gyrgan says, having caught up to them.

Alfor takes a step away from Zarkon, and Zarkon narrows his eyes at him in warning. Lurana pretends she does not notice it. “I'm feeling a lot better, thank you.”

“Well, you didn't miss much,” Alfor says as he takes one more step away from Zarkon. “We had a nice little dinner and then Zarkon got knocked down in a fight by a half-Galra.”

Gyrgan steps between Alfor and Zarkon before Zarkon can extract painful vengeance on Alfor. “To be fair, we've all had a few drinks of that rather strong Galran spring wine, and none of us thought that the kid could even throw a decent punch.”

Lurana smiles, amused and knowing. “You'll know better next time.”

Alfor takes in a sharp breath. “We need to push the wedding back.”

“Why?” Lurana asks, a small frown appearing on her face.

Alfor smiles at her. “Because Zarkon has just realized Keith is his future mate and I thought it would be nice to have our wedding and their mating celebration at the same time.”

Zarkon moves faster than Gyrgan can react, and digs his knuckles into a soft spot between Alfor's lower ribs that he is not protecting. Alfor goes down with a yelp, and Gyrgan pulls Zarkon back.

“Don't make me pick you up,” he says, barely holding back a smile.

Zarkon flattens his ears at him. “You would not dare.”

Gyrgan shrugs and lets go of Zarkon's arm.

“I'm fine,” Alfor huffs, but he allows Lurana to pull him back up. “So no joint celebration?”

Zarkon scowls and imagines knocking Alfor down again, but refrains from doing so. “I believe it is time for me to collect my people and return home,” he says instead, and offers Lurana one last bow before taking his coat and cape from Gyrgan and walking away, the sound of Alfor's warm laughter following him all the way to the elevator.

 

* * *

 

Keith makes a point of avoiding Zarkon even when they cross paths in the Palace. If he can't get out of Zarkon's way, he pretends he's too busy scrubbing at an invisible stain or doing some other chore to see Zarkon pass by.

As far as Keith can tell, Zarkon is more than happy to do the same.

Sometimes Keith sees Yazrik as well. He's been stationed planetside and he seems to be spending all his free time in the Palace, though Keith has no idea why. When Keith sees him he’s usually at Zarkon's side with a glance full of contempt to spare for Keith.

Keith offers him a similar look of disdain in return, and if Zarkon is aware of the exchange he chooses to ignore it. Not that Keith cares.

What he does care about is that he'll be joining Ravik in the Arena tomorrow, and he's bubbling with nervous energy for what’s to come.

“Are you always like this when something new happens?” Ravik asks, scowling at Keith as he pulls his coat off.

“No. I'm just... when you call it an Arena I keep expecting mass violence or something.” Keith glances at Ravik to gauge his reaction.

Ravik snorts. “Sure there's some maiming and occasional hospitalization, but no one's died in a few years and the last accidental limb loss happened months ago. No one's there against their will — most of the people there are professionals anyway — and it's all in good humor.”

“So if limb loss and death are possibilities then what's the reenactment about?” Keith asks.

Ravik waves his hand. “They're doing historical stuff this season. Tomorrow they're doing the Battle of Varda Maru. It's the battle that ended our wars and brought our people together.”

“Oh,” Keith chews his lip. It doesn't sound too bad. He supposes he should've expected the Galra entertainment to involve some bloodshed, but doing reenactments of historical battles is preferable to throwing innocent prisoners into a ring and forcing them to fight for their lives.

He's anxious when he goes to bed and he's tired when he wakes up. His morning goes by with restless energy and Ravik rolling his eyes at him. He fidgets when he follows Ravik to the edge of the Citadel where the Arena is.

The place is huge, almost like a stadium built from stone, and for a moment Keith thinks of the ancient gladiator arenas of Earth. He supposes the principle is similar, though Ravik informs him that the roof is retractable and the roof itself is only used when the weather isn't pleasant.

Ravik checks them in through a back door and leads Keith into the depths of the stadium. The lights are dim and the narrow hallways have been cleaned meticulously. Keith can hear loud conversation and laughter ahead of them.

As they walk, Keith can hear loud conversation and laughter ahead of them. Keith's ears perk up and he resists the urge to look over Ravik's shoulder when he opens the door at the end of the hallway.

The wide room they enter is so full of excited energy that it’s hard to not get swept away. There are benches and tables, and the people — men and women alike — are chatting loudly while they check their equipment and armor. Keith needs only one look at them to know they're fighters — and good ones at that. They're at the peak physical condition for their respective body types and most of them have scars of some kind, proof of their experience. Their armor is made mostly of leather rather than metal, and Keith reminds himself that they're doing a reenactment of some ancient battle, so it makes sense they wouldn't be wearing the typical Galra armor.

“Stick by my side and I'll show you what to do. They can be a bit rowdy so don't take anything they say personally and don't pick fights,” Ravik says quietly as he leads Keith through the crowd.

Keith nods and walks closer to Ravik who leads Keith across the room to an obviously stressed out man wearing deep green robes with golden embroidery. He's got a few scars of his own, and Keith suspects he's fought in the Arena in his younger days.

“You'd think they would want to conserve energy, but no. They have to start a rave before an important show.” The man sighs and hangs his head.

Ravik smiles and glances at Keith. “What do you need us to do?”

The man lifts his gaze to them, narrowing his eyes at Keith but not saying anything about his presence. “Make sure they have their equipment and that they drink something. And make sure we have all the med kits at ready. This one might get messy.”

“Got it,” Ravik says and ushers Keith into the mass of the fighters getting ready for their show. They're much more open at gawking at Keith than people usually are, but as long as he sticks to Ravik's side they leave him alone.

They make sure everyone has the weapons they need, — Keith is surprised to find the swords and blades have slightly dulled edges — that their armor fits, and that they have water.

“So, who's gonna win the battle?” Keith asks when Ravik stops to grab a drink of his own.

Ravik smirks. “Just wait and see.”

Keith rolls his eyes before a thoughtful frown falls on his face. “We'll get to see the show?”

“Of course. We'll get to go to the audience. They reserve seats at a decent spot to the Arena staff. We'll miss the aftershow but that's not as special as the reenactment itself,” Ravik replies, his eyes sparking with amusement.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Aftershow?”

Ravik shrugs and puts his glass into the recycling basket. Keith follows his example, and follows him. “Usually either some of the fighters here or soldiers take on each other in friendly competition. I think today it's Yazrik.”

Keith stills for a second before hurrying after Ravik. “Yazrik? The commander?”

Ravik inclines his head, a shadow passing over his face. “He's got a thing for the Emperor, so he tries to shows off.”

“You don't like him?” Keith asks, not surprised but curious at the same time.

Ravik sighs. “The public likes Yazrik. He's a decorated commander and he's good with an audience. The Palace staff... well, he could be nicer to the working people, is all I'm saying.”

“Yeah. He almost chopped my head off a few weeks back. Za — the Emperor stopped him,” Keith tells Ravik. He hadn't said anything about it when it happened, not having thought it mattered much.

Ravik glances at him, his eyes wide. “We’re putting that kind of stuff on the list of things you need to tell me about.”

“Okay,” Keith replies simply.

They focus on their work again, and after an hour or so Ravik ushers Keith out and to their seats amongst the sea of people already there. Everywhere buzzes with excited energy. Keith lets it take over him too, and he barely notices Ravik disappearing for a few minutes. He appears soon with drinks and dried meat sticks and then he offers Keith his own set. “Remember to drink and eat.”

Keith nods and takes a long sip of his fruit punch.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon had decided to go to the Arena on a whimsy, but somehow Yazrik had still managed to squeeze himself in the place of the fighter who was supposed to provide the aftershow entertainment. Now Zarkon runs the risk of appearing disrespectful if he leaves before Yazrik is done showing off his — admittedly impressive — skills.

Azra arranges Zarkon’s cape around his seat before standing up and bowing. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No, you may be seated.”

She inclines her head and takes her place lounging in the soft double seat on Zarkon's left. Zarkon lets his gaze drift around the crowd until finally settling on the unmistakable form of Keith in the area where the Arena staff always sits.

Azra follows his gaze. “He's cute.”

Zarkon's eyes snap to the dirt floor of the Arena. “Do not forget your place.”

“My apologies, Sire.” Azra falls silent for a tick or two. “Would you like me to challenge Yazrik today?”

Zarkon smiles, just for a moment. “That would not be appropriate, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Azra settles back into her seat. “I trust you will let me know if you change your mind.”

Zarkon inclines his head. If Azra was about to say anything else, the fighters entering the Arena and the Master of Ceremonies beginning her long winded explanation of the history behind the Battle of Varda Maru stops her. Zarkon tunes the announcement out and waits for the battle to start, his eyes drifting back to Keith after a while.

 

* * *

 

The audience enjoys the carefully chaotic choreography of the battle between the Empress's group of seven and the opposing Warlord's group of eleven, and to his surprise, so does Keith. Even the fighters seem to be having fun more than anything else.

Despite the injuries both sides sustain, nothing seems immediately serious and it's all done in good humor. Keith can see the fighters know how to take and give a hit in a safe way, even with all the flourish they put into their movements.

The woman playing the Empress kicks one of her opponents hard enough to send him flying, and Keith knows that though they might not be trying to kill or severely injure each other, they're not holding back either.

Little by little — though predictably — the Empress's side defeats their enemies until only the Empress herself and the Warlord stand. They clash, everyone cheers, and it's hard for Keith to not join them, but he stays focused on the show, watching the way the fighters move and trying to predict and memorize their strategies.

The Empress throws a punch and the Warlord dodges, but she still catches him on the side of his head. Keith doesn't know if she actually hurt him or if it's part of the play, but he goes down.

Ravik taps Keith's knee and Keith glances at him, finding him shoving the last of his meat sticks into his mouth and nudging his head towards the exit. Keith takes the hint and follows Ravik along with the rest of the staff who had decided to come watch the show out in the audience, disappointed he doesn't get to see the last few minutes of the show.

Ravik has Keith help him gather med kits while a few of the other workers gather water and other supplies.

As soon as they have everything they need, they go to greet the banged up fighters, located in a more hospital-like room with a clinical sort of smell hanging in the air this time. There are benches and chairs for the fighters to sit or lie on, a few gurneys where the more injured fighters are laid.

Despite the multiple injuries, the mood in the room is elated. The woman who had played the Empress is doubled over with laughter at the feet of the man who had played the Warlord. He's holding his ear and scowling at her and it only makes her laugh harder.

Ravik leads Keith to them, and hands them a med kit.

“She punched me in the ear!” The man complains as he opens the kit and pulls out an oval shaped green bag and presses it against his ear while Keith stifles a laugh.

“No war has been won without someone getting their ear punched,” the woman replies while wiping the blood off her nose with the back of her hand.

“Try wearing a better helmet next time?” Ravik suggests before pulling Keith away from them.

They take med kits to all the fighters, listening to their recounts of the battle. Most of them are excited and relaxed, laughing at their injuries rather than worried about them. The ones with the more serious injuries are already being treated by professionals, and Ravik informs Keith that all the fighters know how to patch up the more typical injuries they get in the Arena.

“Of course, a healer always checks them out too, but it helps that they know how to disinfect and bandage a wound so that they don't bleed all over the place while they’re waiting,” he says while Keith nods in response.

“Who's kicking the newbies today? The cute general from the Kral station?” The woman who had played the Empress asks when Keith and Ravik walk by her again.

Ravik stops and makes a face. “No, Yazrik's showing off again.”

She groans. “Not again.”

Keith frowns and steps forward. “Why? Does he do that a lot?”

The woman eyes Keith skeptically before shrugging and inclining her head. “Every time he's in the Citadel and the Emperor comes to see the show.” She leans up and offers her hand to Keith. “I'm Edzi, that's Rizo.” She nudges her head at the man who's still covering his ear with the cold bag.

Keith grabs her forearm and she does the same to him. “Keith.”

“You're a half-breed,” Rizo states from where he sits.

Keith nods. “I've noticed.”

Edzi scowls and punches Rizo's leg, making him hiss.

“So why is it bad if Yazrik wants to show off? I thought that was fine.” Keith crosses his arms and frowns.

“It is his right,” Edzi replies patiently. “But he's a _qradja_ and he thinks he's better than us because he's a commander and we're entertainers. He comes here and knocks the newbies and any challengers down, but he's not doing it to have fun with others like he's supposed to, he just wants to feel important and win the Emperor’s favor.”

Keith's frown deepens. “So why does the Emperor put up with it?”

“Because Yazrik is smart enough to not let him see that side of him. Besides, the Emperor doesn’t care about Yazrik enough to pay too close attention to his behavior,” Ravik replies. “Now come on, I need a drink.”

Ravik drags Keith out of the room and down a narrow hallway back to the first room they had first arrived in. There's a canister of water by a table near the far wall and Ravik heads straight to it, sighing tiredly as he slumps against the table and goes through the motions of pouring himself a glass. Since the dry air of the Arena is making his throat itch, Keith also gets himself a glass of water.

“So who are the challengers that Yazrik's supposed to fight?” Keith asks.

“Anyone who wants to take him on,” Ravik answers and gulps down his water. “Usually the new employees here and soldiers who want to get on the commander's radar. But if one of the Imperial Guard were to challenge him it'd basically be like the Emperor declaring Yazrik an unwanted suitor or fired, so they aren't allowed to challenge Yazrik or anyone else in the Arena unless they have the Emperor's permission. But anyone else can just go out there and give it a go, though Yazrik always wins.”

Keith could probably defeat Yazrik. He says so much to Ravik, who snorts his water and ends up coughing for a minute before turning to stare at Keith with wide, incredulous eyes. “You're insane.”

Keith shrugs. “I could do it.”

“And I could do a weeks worth of your shifts,” Ravik jokes. “Doesn't mean it's going to happen.”

Keith shouldn't let Ravik bait him. He should ignore Ravik and not let him push him into doing something Keith shouldn't be doing. But Keith is anxious, and he doesn't like Yazrik, and Ravik's just offered to take a weeks worth of his shits.

“Anyone can challenge him, right?” Keith asks.

Ravik slowly inclines his head.

“So how about I just go kick his ass and you can take my shifts next week.” Keith has to hold back a smile at Ravik's horrified expression.

“No, you don't understand. You're can't actually— what's with that face?” Ravik turns to frown at Edzi limping to them.

“I told you he's a _qradja._ He broke one of the newbie's arm but he didn't have to do that, he’d already won by that point. There's no sportsmanship in it.” Edzi pours herself a glass of water and scowls at the room. “I'd go break him in half myself if I could.”

Keith grits his teeth. He might have been half joking earlier, but now he points at the dagger Edzi has on her side with grim determination. “Can I borrow that?”

Edzi raises an eyebrow, and Keith doesn't wait for her to tell him no before grabbing the dagger and heading to the gates of the Arena.

“Wh — Keith! Do not fight the commander!” Ravik runs after him with Edzi limping behind him.

“You're doing my shifts next week,” Keith says without sparing Ravik a glance, pretending he’s in anyway interested in whether or not Ravik actually does so.

“Keith, you can't — “

Keith stops in front of the Master of Ceremonies — a tall, lithe woman in colorful robes — and smiles. “I want to fight him.”

She looks Keith up and down with an unimpressed scowl on her face before waving her stylus at the Arena. “Go on.”

“Ma'am,” Edzi starts.

“It’s been a while since we last saw a half-breed get put in their place. It'd be a good finish for the day,” the Master of Ceremonies replies.

Keith doesn't spare Ravik and Edzi a glance before marching into the Arena. The racket of the audience turns into a distant buzz in the background as Keith approaches Yazrik.

Yazrik looks surprised to see Keith for a full two seconds before laughing incredulously, glancing over his shoulder at something in the audience, but Keith is too focused on making sure he's got the right distance from Yazrik to care about what he finds so important.

Yazrik turns back to Keith, chuckling quietly. “You are by far the most disrespectful half-breed I have ever met.”

“Do you need a warning or something before we start?” Keith asks as a reply.

Yazrik glances around and grins. “From you? No thank yo — “

Keith rushes him, throwing the dagger at Yazrik as soon as he's close enough. Yazrik deflects the dagger as Keith assumed he would, but it distracts him enough for Keith to get close and land a hard kick to his knee.

Yazrik tries to swing his sword at Keith but Keith drops to the ground and takes a hold of the leg he'd just kicked and — just like Kolivan had taught him — twists it, driving his elbow into it hard enough to dislocate it.

Keith drives a fist into Yazrik's gut as he doubles over, knocking the air out of him. Yazrik takes one more blind swing at Keith, but Keith parries it and pulls Yazrik to the ground, twisting the sword from his hand and aims it at Yazrik's throat.

Keith breaths are coming out in fast puffs, and it takes him a moment to notice the deafening silence that has fallen all around him. Keith's ears twitch down and he lifts his head, but before he can get a good view of his surroundings two pairs of strong arms yank him from on top of Yazrik. They drag him upright and Keith looks up to see a pair of guards holding him still with grim expressions on their faces as they gaze up to the audience.

Keith follows their line of sight and swallows when he sees Zarkon. Even from the distance Keith can see the hard frown marring his face, and though Keith doesn't know what he did wrong, he knows it's serious. Yazrik scrambles to his feet as best as he can with his dislocated knee and picks his sword up before turning to Zarkon with an expectant look on his face.

For the longest moment nobody speaks, then Zarkon raises his hand, his palm turned towards himself with his fingers curled slightly. Keith fears he has just been sentenced to death until Yazrik lets out a quiet, confused noise and the guards yank Keith back, dragging him across the Arena and back inside.

Ravik stares at Keith when the guards drag him past, a dumbfounded look on his face, similar to the one Edzi is wearing.

The guards take Keith to a small backroom with a small desk pushed to a corner next to a cabinet. Keith straightens his clothes and looks around while the guards lock the door behind them. He's sure he's in trouble, but he's not sure why.

There's nothing of interest in the room itself. The walls are basic sand colored stone, the desk has nothing on it, and the cabinet is locked when Keith makes a curious tug at it. Keith walks around the table and pulls out the chair, slumping down on it with a heavy sigh.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon is going to kill Keith and have his body hidden so deep in the desert no one will ever be able to find it.

Of all the stupid things Keith could have done, he had to publicly challenge Yazrik when he was so clearly attempting to present himself to Zarkon in a good light. Then Keith had to go and make a fool of him.

Zarkon does not barge into the back office he had ordered Keith to be taken to, but he does step through the doorway with more intent than usual and pulls himself to his full height as he allows his anger to show on his face.

Keith stands up from the chair he had been lounging on, and he has the sense to look chastised as he comes to stand in front of Zarkon.

“The only reason I did not order your public execution just now is that I know you are unaware of our customs,” Zarkon states, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. Keith flinches, and when Zarkon takes a step forward, he hurries to take a step back.

“You are not fully Galra, so you have no place doing what you just did. You have not only disrespected one of my commanders — and me by extension — you challenged someone who is well known for their attempts to court me in front of tens of thousands of people and you did not merely defeat him, you also humiliated him.” Zarkon takes a slow breath.

Keith frowns, as if Zarkon is somehow in the wrong. “He broke someone's arm. I just — “

“You challenged my suitor in a battle when he was attempting to impress me, and defeated him. You did not show him the respect he is due, and you did not clarify your reasons for doing so, and the only conclusion anyone could draw from that was that you challenged him for the right to court me. Now that you have so effortlessly defeated your competition for my hand, I wonder what you intend to do next.” Zarkon takes some comfort in the alarm that takes over Keith's expression as he speaks.

Keith opens and closes his mouth, his eyes almost comically wide. “I swear I did not know that was a thing. I wouldn't — I mean... I didn't know that was a thing and if I’d known I never would have challenged him.”

Zarkon grinds his teeth and ignores the flash of disappointment he feels. He has no reason to be disappointed.

“Not that it isn't an honor to, you know, court the Emperor or whatever. I think. But it's not, um.” Keith bites his lip and Zarkon looks away, allowing some of the tension to leave his posture.

“I will have to reprimand you,” he says, stepping past Keith to the desk.

“I understand,” Keith replies, and he sounds like he means it, which Zarkon counts as a positive.

“You will not be paid for your work here today. You will also scrub and polish the front steps of the Palace first thing tomorrow. And you will spend the night in a holding cell.” Zarkon tilts his head, satisfied with his punishment for Keith's transgression. He turns to Keith to make sure he understands what is required of him, surprised to see he seems almost scared. “What is it?”

“You're putting me in a cell?” Keith asks and shifts his weight from one foot to another.

It takes Zarkon a moment to remember Keith had been imprisoned by the Bryx. “The holding cell in the Palace is not like the cells you were held in. I would send you to the Peace Officers but your transgression was against me and done out of ignorance, and you are part of my staff, so I see no reason for that. You will be fed properly and you will be provided with anything you may need. This is merely a formality.”

Keith swallows, but nods. “I get it.”

Zarkon inclines his head and clasps his hands together. “Now, I must go fix this mess you have created. You will be escorted back to the Palace by the guards. Wait for them here.”

Keith nods again. “Okay.”

Zarkon raises an eyebrow, and Keith hurries to do his version of a bow. “My Lord Emperor,” he adds, and for once his voice lacks its usual defiance.

Zarkon leaves Keith where he is, deciding not to dwell on why the change in his tone bothers him so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking I'm gonna keep updating this about every other week, mostly because I have a lot of stuff to do and this way I won't have to be constantly editing. 
> 
> I hope you liked this!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! It's our first technically a filler chapter! :D

The cell Keith is placed in is deep inside the Palace, away from any public areas. The cell isn’t big, but it's got a toilet and a small cot, as well as a soft light illuminating everything. Keith gets a decent meal brought to him a few hours later, and the guard tells him when the lights get turned off.

While he's in the cell, Keith thinks.

He hadn't considered the possibility that there would be anything to him defeating Yazrik, and he'd been severely wrong in his assumption that he’d just be knocking a bully down a notch. If he'd known the consequences of his actions he would've never fought Yazrik.

He'd never try to court Zarkon — let alone fight for the right to do so — no matter how nice the Zarkon of this reality seems. Zarkon is destined to marry Honerva and go evil, and Keith doesn't want any part in that.

And he most definitely does not want to court Zarkon. Ever.

Keith groans and rolls over on the cot, and pointedly doesn't think of Zarkon while he waits for sleep to find him.

The guards wake Keith up before the sun rises. He gets to change his clothes before the guards escort him to the Palace steps, and Keith begins his grudging day of work.

The guards stay by his side. They're supposed to make sure he does his job, but they are more busy chatting with each other than paying attention to Keith, not that Keith minds; he'd gotten the impression that they were amused and a little impressed with Keith's show of skill the day before, and they don’t think Keith’s going to disrespect their Emperor by not following through with his punishment.

The staff and visitors passing him after the sun begins to rise spare him looks ranging from displeased to amused, but Keith can't find it in himself to care. The heat of the rising sun does little to ease the sweat beginning to form on his skin, and his muscles grow sore from scrubbing the stone steps.

He wets another section of the steps, adds the soap, and scrubs as hard as he can before rinsing the soap away and moving back to checking the previous spot he'd cleaned for any residual stains.

He sighs when he notices a stain, and he repeats the process of cleaning the spot. Once he's sure the spot dry and clean, he adds the polish to it.

It takes him the better part of the morning and noon to get through all of the steps, and once he's done he's exhausted and stiff, and there's no muscle in his body that doesn't ache. The guards call Ezil to inspect his handiwork, and they show Keith to his room as soon as she clears him.

Keith resists the urge to flop down on the bed and go to sleep. He needs a shower first. His clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably, he smells horrible, and if he doesn't do something about it Ravik will wake him up and complain about it until he's sure Keith will never forget to shower again.

Keith grabs clean clothes and heads to the shower, and when he returns to his room he flops on the bed and welcomes sleep.

 

* * *

 

“He did what?” Alfor asks, his face pressed against Blaytz's as they both try to fit on the smaller screen of the shuttle they are on.

Zarkon takes a deep breath and steels himself for whatever is about to come. “He challenged Yazrik into a battle in the Arena and defeated him,” he repeats, forcing his words to come out as calmly as possible.

Blaytz and Alfor share a look and a tick later Blaytz breaks down, howling with laughter while Alfor turns deep red from trying not to do the same. Zarkon's ears twitch down, but it only serves to make Blaytz laugh harder.

“This is a serious matter,” Zarkon tells them, his voice turning clipped.

Alfor lets out a shaky breath as he fights back a smile. “I know. It's sad you lost a suitor because of Keith's lack of knowledge and impressive fighting skills. Maybe you should follow the traditions and accept him as your new suitor?”

Zarkon nearly  balks at the suggestion. “It was not his intention to challenge Yazrik as my suitor.”

If it had been, Zarkon would have had to either accept Keith's advantages or — as Keith is a half-breed — exile him from the Citadel for such a blatant breach of proper conduct. Accepting Keith's advantages would not have been possible for him: Zarkon might be able to get away with taking a mate from a lower class if they were suitable in any other aspect, but not from as low class as the serving staff, let alone a half-breed.

It was simply not done.

“Did you fire him?” Alfor asks while Blaytz comes down from his fit of laughter.

“Not yet.” Zarkon does not bother telling Alfor he has no intention of letting Keith go. It is not appropriate, but he prefers to have Keith close by, even after his unintentional transgression.

“Did you confess your love for him yet?” Blaytz asks, feigning innocence.

“Of course he didn't.” Alfor scoffs and shakes his head. “He's the type that needs to be courted first.”

“I will cut the transmission and never speak to either one of you again,” Zarkon states, but he suspects his friends are aware that his threat is not entirely serious.

“How about the party?” Alfor asks, kindly changing the subject.

“Celebration,” Zarkon corrects him.

“Rave,” Blaytz butts in. Zarkon narrows his eyes at him in return.

“You are of course invited, as is Lurana, but I do need to remind you that I will not tolerate a single negative remark of my culture or people on that day,” Zarkon says.

Alfor bows his head. “Of course. And I'm sorry about the last time. I didn't understand the significance of the custom. I'll make sure to quietly inquire after anything that might confuse me.”

Zarkon had invited Alfor to witness the Solstice celebration a few years back, and Alfor had grievously misunderstood certain aspects of the Galra customs and vocally informed Zarkon that they were dangerous and outdated, and should be abolished.

Needless to say Alfor had not been welcome on Daibazaal for quite some time, though Zarkon understood he had not meant insult to anyone; it was merely Alfor's own cultural biases clashing with the Galran ones.

“Can I come?” Blaytz asks.

“You may join us for the day, but as much as I would like to have all of my friends present, I think it would be best if you make yourself scarce before the sundown. We would not want another one of your drunken mishaps to cause a scene,” Zarkon replies, hoping Blaytz will understand his reasons.

Blaytz rolls his eyes, but he does not appear offended. “What if I promise I won't swim in any sacred waters again?”

“I will consider it,” Zarkon replies.

Their conversation drifts back to more menial things after that. They talk for nearly a varga before Alfor and Blaytz arrive at their destination and they must cut the transmission.

Zarkon sighs and allows himself to slump in the soft chair just for a moment, his tired eyes scanning his private library where he had wished to enjoy his evening tea in. Azra should be bringing the tea in any moment now, and he would prefer her to not see how exhausted he feels.

Of course she arrives sooner than he expected, and she narrows her eyes, just for a fraction of a tick, before bowing and bringing Zarkon his tea. “Is something the matter, my Lord?”

Zarkon — not bothering to sit up — sighs again and accepts the tea. “Keith.”

Azra's eyes flash in understanding. “You could promote him.”

Zarkon cannot promote him and he tells Azra as much.

She sits down and considers Zarkon a little too closely. “He has talent. It should be utilized.”

Zarkon levels her with a warning glare, and she bows her head. Nevertheless, there is truth in her words that Zarkon cannot simply ignore.

He takes a slow breath, and regards his teacup rather than Azra. “He could join the military. He might be more easily accepted there, and that way his talent would not go to waste.”

Azra shifts, and Zarkon keeps his expression carefully neutral so that she feels comfortable speaking her mind. “He could join the Imperial Guard,” she suggests, her voice casual yet a little too quiet.

It is not easy, but Zarkon keeps his ears from twitching. “That would be improper.”

“Of course,” Azra replies and stands. “I must return to my duties.”

Zarkon waves her off and refuses to think of what she had just suggested.

 

* * *

 

To Keith's surprise, Ravik does indeed do a weeks worth of his shifts. Keith takes the opportunity to sleep and lay low.

While the Palace staff seems more amused by Keith defeating Yazrik than anything, Keith would prefer them to move on from the incident and get something else to gossip about; he doesn’t enjoy being the topic of the conversation everywhere he goes.

Keith also discovers that Zarkon had ordered Ezil to teach him the proper code of conduct and Galran customs which is why Keith finds himself in Ezil's meticulously organized office one morning, having been summoned there before he even had a chance to get breakfast.

Ezil frowns at Keith, and Keith tries not to frown in return. They have been going over the basic Galra customs for a better part of an hour now and they're both getting tired of it.

“You must show respect to those who are above you,” Ezil says for the third time. “Our class system keeps our civilization from crumbling into madness, and your opinion on it is not relevant.  You must learn our ways to avoid another incident.”

Now Keith does frown.

Ezil straightens the pad lying on her desk. “If you wish to live among us you must learn to follow our rules, just like everyone else does. You have no right to step above your place in the society as you see fit simply because you think you are above our customs.”

Keith sighs and looks down. He's already confused by the whole class system and how it operates, and now he has to memorize the minute intricacies of Galra social structures and customs on top of it.

It's not that Keith doesn't understand why he ought to learn all of the stuff Ezil is trying to teach him, or why he should act in a way that's acceptable for someone of his statue, but it's tiring and he misses not having to consider every little thing he does or says.

Still, Keith sits up straighter and listens to Ezil's fourth recount of how to behave in the presence of someone of higher standing than Keith. He is to show respect by bowing and refer to those who have a title by it. He should never speak to someone of higher ranking without being spoken to first.

And — as Ezil stresses —  he is not under any circumstances ever, to challenge anyone to combat unless he has asked someone who knows how the Galra society works whether or not they are in a relationship or courting anyone. If he finds himself in a situation where he must challenge someone, Keith must state his reasons for doing so clearly and wait for acceptance before doing anything else.

Keith's convinced that particular rule is something Zarkon ordered Ezil to set on Keith.

“So how do I know if someone is being courted? And by whom?”

Ezil tilts her head and crosses her hands on the desk. “Body language.”

Keith lifts a confused eyebrow. “Body language?”

Ezil inclines her head. “A large proportion of our communication — especially when it comes to romance — is done through body language. For example, touching the arm with one's ears softly tilted down is considered a romantic overture, but touching the arm with one's ears drawn back is a sign of aggression.”

Keith nods slowly. “Do you have a guide book or something I could consult on that sort of stuff?”

“I will see if one can be arranged for you,” Ezil promises, “in the meantime be careful and ask for clarification on everything.”

Keith huffs and shakes his head. “I got that figured out on my own. I don't intend to die because of a misunderstanding.”

Ezil frowns and cocks her head. “Why would you die because of one?”

Keith lifts a confused eyebrow. “Za — the Emperor said he could've had me executed for defeating Yazrik the way I did.”

Ezil sighs, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “It's not like you committed a war crime or treason. No one has the right to execute you over something so trivial; we are not so uncivilized, no matter what you might have heard before you came here. And you shouldn't take all of our beloved Emperor's threats quite so seriously.”

Keith's eyebrow rises higher, but he doesn't say anything. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Zarkon might have been making an empty threat, but on hindsight he probably should've thought of that.

“Thank you for clarifying that,” Keith says. “Can I go now?”

Ezil waves him off and Keith hurries out of her office and towards the mess hall where he's supposed to meet Ravik.

The mess hall is half empty by the time Keith gets there, but Ravik is there just as he had promised to be. Keith hurries across the floor, dodging the scattered chairs and tables that had been moved around until he reaches Ravik.

“How was it?” Ravik asks, pushing a plate of fish and vegetables across the table to Keith.

Keith accepts the plate and sighs. “She's getting me a manual on Galra body language and customs.”

Ravik raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. “That'll be helpful. You could also try not fighting with anyone.”

Keith throws him a dirty glare and stuffs his mouth full of yellow beans.

Ravik moves the last of his red salad across his plate. “I'm going to a party with friends today so you'll have the room to yourself. I'll sober up at the house and come back for my evening shift.”

Keith nods. “Have fun.”

Ravik inclines his head and sets his plate aside. “I'm going to the salon later this week as well. You can come too, if you want.”

Keith glances at his claws that have grown rather long. “Sure.”

“Then I'll book you a reservation too,” Ravik promises.

They chat while Keith eats, and afterwards Keith walks Ravik to the dining room he'll be cleaning that day.

 

* * *

 

To keep his friends from accusing him of not being social, Zarkon decides to join them for a day long trip to a high end restaurant located on a moon circling a planet with an Altean wildlife preserve on it. The restaurant is rather sparsely decorated: beautiful but easy to ignore artwork on the walls and simple yet stylish lamps hang from the ceiling, casting the pastel colors of the restaurant in a soft, warm light.

The round-edged, light green table Trigel has reserved for their entourage is located in a quiet corner, far from prying eyes and anyone who might wish to try to listen to their conversation. The seats are wood painted white with simple carvings of stars decorating the backs and arms of them, and soft, pale green pillows on them to make sitting for vargas on end more pleasant.

Alfor — ever mindful of his friends need for privacy — has arranged for his most trusted staff members to occupy the tables closest to them. Zarkon had offered his own guard for the job, but Alfor had declined, saying that since it was his and Trigel's idea to get everyone together, they should be the ones to take care of everything.

“I wish you would've gotten that recorded,” Blaytz says and grins into his glass of wine.

“I wish we had recording of the kid taking down Yazrik. That must have been something,” Alfor replies.

“It was not,” Zarkon hurries to say, wishing they would stop talking about Keith's combat skills. “Yazrik was tired and Keith took him by surprise, there is nothing more to it.”

Trigel raises an eyebrow. “Now it's Keith, huh?”

Zarkon scowls at her.

“On a more serious matter,” Gyrgan starts and puts his spoon. “Has anyone figured out how Zarkon's little hybrid can take out not only a commander but our dear Emperor here as well?”

“Maybe he was in the army of whatever planet he's originally from,” Blaytz suggests, “or he's just your typical Galra and combat is his passion.”

“He is harmless. While it is curious that he is so talented, the reasons behind it are not of immediate concern to me,” Zarkon says.

Gyrgan tilts his head as he mulls over Zarkon's words. “He can take you of all people down. That doesn't seem harmless to me.”

“I have already told you that was due to a mistake on my part, and the wine we had before you insisted I teach him,” Zarkon snaps. He picks up his glass, frowning at the blue liquid swirling in it. “He was held captive by people who whipped him and wanted to sell him to slavery before I found him by chance. He is not a danger to anyone, least of all my people.”

“No one's implying he's a danger to anyone,” Alfor cuts in. “Just that he's not as harmless as we thought he was. He can clearly take care of himself.”

“Maybe you should put him in the military,” Trigel suggests.

Zarkon huffs. “Azra thinks I should appoint him to the Imperial Guard.”

Alfor's eyes brighten, and Zarkon realizes the mistake he just made. “Maybe you should.”

“It would be highly inappropriate,” Zarkon points out, his voice carrying enough finality to end the line of conversation before it has a chance to truly start.

Satisfied with the subject being dropped, Zarkon focuses on his plate. He was cautious of the deep fried meat at first  fearing it would be as strongly spiced as Altean food so often is — but the meat is perfectly edible. Alfor must have instructed the cook to take Zarkon's sensitive taste buds into consideration while preparing the dish.

“So how about that monsoon coming your way?” Blaytz asks Trigel a little too casually to sound natural.

“We've got everything ready early this year, so obviously something's going to go horribly wrong,” Trigel says, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Blaytz chuckles. “Well, I'm willing to come over with my people and help out if you need anything. We like the rain.”

“Don't tempt me to ask for you to do just that,” Trigel replies.

“I'll help too,” Alfor says before nodding towards Gyrgan and Zarkon. “And I'm sure our desert dwelling friends will help after the rain stops.”

Both Gyrgan and Zarkon agree to it immediately.

It does not take long for Alfor to start going on about his and Lurana's wedding arrangements, and the rest of them listen to his excited babbling patiently. Zarkon cannot speak for the others, but he enjoys hearing about the wedding; the proceedings of it are curious and strange.

Lurana and Alfor had been surprised when Zarkon had informed them that he had never participated in a wedding ceremony, and that the Galra did not have such proceedings. They had explained the history of the ceremony to Zarkon, and he had been even more baffled by the whole thing. “Why would you need to promise you love someone in front of deities and an audience in order for you both to be assured that you can spend the rest of your lives together?”

Alfor had laughed, but it had been kind, and Lurana had sat Zarkon down and explained to him that it was not about being assured of each other's love and commitment, but about saying those promises in front of their friends and loved ones, and being so certain of it that they felt safe declaring their love in front of the gods themselves.

Zarkon had not understood it entirely, but he thinks there is a certain sweetness to it. Alfor and Lurana had decided to include Zarkon in their wedding plans after that day — taking him to meet the caterer and to pick color schemes and such — so he is already familiar with Alfor's explanation of the fiasco with the dressmaker.

Trigel finds the story hilarious while Gyrgan grimaces at it, and Blaytz is merely confused as to why they would even need dresses to celebrate a wedding. “Our bonding ceremonies are performed nude,” he explains with a shrug.

“And I shall never attend such an event,” Zarkon replies.

Blaytz smirks. “You'd love it. It's all done under water so you'd need a breathing mask but you'd be right at home there.”

Zarkon shudders, but he cannot quite hide the smile creeping on his lips. “I would rather perish.”

It gets everyone to laugh, just as Zarkon had anticipated it would.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Keith returns to work, and he suspects his shifts have been carefully planned in a way that keep him out of sight. He barely sees the public areas, but he understands why it is so he doesn't complain about it. He's sure he'll get to return to doing day shifts in the public areas when the scandal of what he'd done in the Arena dies down.

Ezil continues to teach Keith the finer points of living with the Galra, and after every session Keith is more and more grateful he doesn't live among the general public. He'd have accidentally caused a dozen brawls by now if he did.

Despite Keith not asking, Ezil informs him that his shift schedule is unlikely to change any time soon since she and the public relations division — which Keith didn't know even existed before — haven't had to do so much damage control since Zarkon decided to join an alliance with four other races. Keith tries look properly chastised, but if the way Ezil narrows her eyes is anything to go by he's not doing too good of a job of it.

So Keith keeps his head down, and though he finds himself missing the chance to say hi to Zarkon every time they crossed paths, he understands why he can't be seen for now.

He sees Zarkon from a distance every now and again and he always stops, just for a second, to watch him walk by without a glance thrown in Keith's way. It's bittersweet, in a way. Zarkon had wanted Keith to blend into the background and now he finally did, so Keith assumes he's happy with the situation.

But Keith isn't happy. He misses the exasperated looks Zarkon gave him, and he misses the barely there hint of a smile that sometimes played on Zarkon's lips when Keith spoke.

Keith supposes he's grown to like Zarkon, in a way. He's certainly more agreeable as a person than the Zarkon from Keith's reality. This Zarkon was kind enough to let Keith continue working in the Palace after what happened with Yazrik and he didn't fire him for accidentally challenging someone for his hand, as Ezil had informed him should have been the proper thing to do.

Keith sighs as he picks up another teacup and starts polishing it. He'd been assigned to the kitchen cleanup crew that evening, and though everyone else had already gone to sleep Keith had stayed behind to make sure the cutlery is presentable come morning. He'd done it more out of a need to be alone and think than anything else, but since no one had any objections — and Keith’s the only one of the crew who didn’t have a morning shift looming over them — it was an easily accepted decision among them all.

The door opening drags Keith from his musings, and his eyes widen when they land on Zarkon.

Zarkon stops when he notices Keith, and they stare at each other in silence for several long seconds before Keith scrambles to his feet and bows deeply in the exact way Ezil had taught him, going so far as to place his fsit on top of his heart — Ezil hadn't gotten around explaining why it was done to him but he's seen it enough to know it's a show of respect of some kind.

“Can I help you, my Lord?” Keith makes sure to have as much respect in his voice as he can muster. There is no way he'll cause another incident by not following the proper protocol.

“I was hoping to get a cup of tea,” Zarkon replies. Keith doesn't miss the guarded edge of his voice. “Azra is feeling unwell so she was not available to fetch one for me,” Zarkon adds.

Keith nods. “I'll get the pot boiling.”

Zarkon takes the worn wooden stool from the corner of the room and brings it to the dark metal counter. He sits there silently, watching Keith go about getting the tea done with sharp eyes.

Keith gets one of the meticulously polished cups from the shelf he'd put them on, and pours the now boiling tea in it. He almost burns his fingers when he takes the cup to Zarkon, and as an afterthought he hurries to get a cookie from the plate covered with a thin towel and left on the counter on the other side of the room. Keith isn't sure if he's actually allowed to touch the cookies, but he doubts anyone will be mad at him for giving one to Zarkon.

Keith leaves Zarkon to his tea and goes back to getting the last cups shiny and presentable. Zarkon's eyes remain on him, and Keith does his best to ignore the way his sharp gaze makes Keith want to fidget. He wants to ask Zarkon why he's studying Keith so closely, but he doesn’t want to speak out of term again.

It takes some time — during which Keith gets all the cups polished and placed in their respective spots in the cabinets — for Zarkon to finish his tea. Keith takes the now empty cup and washes it while Zarkon steals another cookie from the plate.

Keith sets the cup aside to dry and turns to Zarkon, making sure he appears as respectful as possible. Zarkon nibbles at his cookie as he frowns at Keith, and Keith wonders what he's done wrong now.

Keith shifts, biting his lip as he weighs the pros and cons of asking what he did to earn that particular look directed his way. “Is something wrong, Sire?” Keith ends up asking, nearly flinching when Zarkon's frown deepens.

Zarkon stays quiet for an agonizingly long moment before taking a sharp breath. “No. Everything is fine.” He doesn't sound like everything is fine, but Keith knows it's not his place to tell him so. He's a servant and he needs to act like one.

For a moment, Zarkon stares at Keith, his expression expectant, but Keith doesn't know why that is. When he doesn't answer Zarkon's expression turns sour again and he turns on his heels.

Keith opens his mouth to call after him, but no sound comes out. He watches Zarkon leave the kitchen, the set of his shoulders stiff, and when he's gone Keith groans and hangs his head. He hates not being able to talk to Zarkon like a normal person anymore.

 

* * *

 

It takes a week for Keith to run into Zarkon again, this time early in the morning while he's dusting the top shelves in library. It's unusual for Zarkon to utilize the library that's not in his private wing, so Keith is a little taken aback by the sight of him and he ends up knocking a book off the shelf. It hits him on top of his head, and any possibility that Zarkon didn't know he was there dies when Keith curses the book as he rubs the now sore top of his head.

“Do not mistreat or destroy my books,” Zarkon orders Keith as a way of greeting. Keith nods and bows as well as he can while balancing on the small ladder.

“I'll try my best, Sire,” Keith promises.

Zarkon narrows his eyes before leaving Keith to dust of the rest of the shelf. Keith doesn't understand what he did to earn Zarkon's sudden hostility. Maybe he'd had a thing for Yazrik and he's angry because Keith humiliated him. Beyond that, Keith can't come up with anything. He's done everything in his power to be the ideal servant, and everyone but Zarkon seems happy with it.

It makes no sense. Zarkon should be happy, but he's not.

Keith expects Zarkon to leave, but after a minute or so he wanders back to Keith and studies him with a critical eye while Keith does his best to focus on his work.

“You seem... not yourself,” Zarkon says, much to Keith's surprise.

Keith turns to him, a confused frown on his face. “I'm not sure I follow.”

Zarkon tilts his head. “You have been behaving in a way that is not typical of you. I hope it is not because I had to place you in the cell.”

Keith shakes his head. “No, it's not that.”

“Then what is it?” Zarkon asks, straightening up. “As your Emperor I demand you tell me the truth.”

The corners of Keith's lips quirk up on their own volition. “With all due respect, Sire, you don't have the right to pry into my personal life if it doesn't affect my job performance. Ezil explained that stuff to me.”

Zarkon doesn't quite pout, but it's close, and Keith bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. He does like this Zarkon, quite a bit in fact, and he hates that they can’t be friends. He almost laughs at him wanting to befriend Zarkon of all people — the memory of what he will become in the future is a little too clear in his mind — but he grits his teeth and stays silent.

“You are not acting like yourself,” Zarkon says, his voice bordering no resigned.

Keith sighs. “You wanted me to act like a proper servant, I'm just trying to do that and avoid causing anymore trouble.” Keith bows his head. “Sire.”

Zarkon frowns, and Keith focuses his attention back on the shelves. Zarkon remains there, watching Keith work. Keith doesn't comment on it; he's not sure he has any right to ask Zarkon leave his own library, and he's not exactly bothering him. He's just... watching Keith intently.

“I am uncertain this situation is beneficial for you,” Zarkon says.

Keith bites back a sigh and turns to him. “What do you mean?”

Zarkon frowns and crosses his arms. “You do not seem happy. I understand that our customs are not easy for outworlders to learn, but you seem particularly miserable, even after all the time you have spent here.”

Keith blinks, unsure of what to make of Zarkon's sudden concern for his happiness. “But you all want me to act according to the proper code of conduct.”

“We do,” Zarkon agrees. “But I fear you are not suited for the kind of work etiquette the Palace requires.”

Keith swallows, dread bubbling inside him. “I'll adjust. I'm still learning this stuff but once I do I'll be fine.”

The corners of Zarkon’s lips turn down, and Keith returns back to his work to prove his point.

“I do not like your behavior,” Zarkon says quietly. Keith stills, slowly turning to face Zarkon, his eyes wide in surprise. Zarkon starts to shrug, but stops. “I admit I have grown rather used to your particular form of insubordination, and I do not enjoy adjusting to change in my home.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it when he doesn't come up with anything to say. He tries again, and this time he actually forms words. “But I ruined your relationship.”

“What do you mean?” Zarkon asks, his voice and expression confused.

“With Yazrik. The way I understood it is that he can't court you anymore.”

The confusion melts from Zarkon's face, replaced with exasperated amusement that Keith is sure he's allowing Keith see just to put his mind at ease. “Yazrik is free to do as he pleases. Everyone knows you did not intentionally challenge him for my hand” — Zarkon tilts his head — “though no one is going to take him seriously as my suitor anymore. Even if he were to challenge you to a rematch and defeat you, he would not be able to regain enough respect from the public to be an acceptable partner for me for a few years.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. “It was that bad, huh?”

Zarkon fights back a smile of his own. “You did defeat him rather spectacularly, and we do enjoy our gossip and scandals.”

Keith laughs and shakes his head as some of the tension he didn't know was even there leaves his shoulders. “I should've stopped and listened to Ravik. He tried to warn me but I didn't listen. I'm sorry I ruined things for you two.”

“It is of no consequence,” Zarkon replies, and when Keith gives him a confused look he shrugs minutely. “Yazrik is not a displeasing person to be around, and he is a capable commander, but as I hold no particular fondness or affection for him you have not done any harm to my relationship with him. I would have had to eventually turn him down anyways.”

Keith frowns. “So you were just stringing him along?”

“Hardly,” Zarkon replies, “Yazrik is smart enough to know I do not return his affections, but I did consider the possibility of him as a partner and he would have been a good choice, so I did not discourage him. And he did a rather remarkable job at keeping everyone else wishing to court me at bay.”

Keith wipes a speck of dust from the shelf. “Still, I didn't mean to cause trouble.”

“The damage has been dealt with,” Zarkon assures him.

Keith nods and bites his lip.

“There is one thing I have been wondering about,” Zarkon starts, and Keith turns to him, nodding in encouragement. “Why did you have to cause a national scandal before you started behaving in an appropriate manner? You are clearly capable of following the proper code of conduct, yet you did not do so before, no matter how many times we told you told to do so.”

Keith sighs and studies the dark wood of the shelf in front of him, and the beautiful leather bound books on it. How is he supposed to explain that he couldn't bring himself to show Zarkon any respect because he couldn't help but compare this Zarkon to the one he'd spent so long fighting against, and how Zarkon is the only thing that is in any way familiar to him in this strange world — despite the fact that he’s completely differet from the Zarkon in Keith’s reality.

“You saved me,” Keith says, his voice more quiet than he intended, and shrugs. “I don't know anyone here and I'm not that good at making friends and you...”

Keith swallows, unsure of how to continue. Zarkon is so quiet Keith risks a glance at him, surprised to find him regarding Keith with understanding warmth in his eyes. Keith's cheeks turn hot and he looks away. Zarkon brushes his knuckles against Keith's elbow, and Keith looks back to him.

Zarkon offers him a small smile. “I would be willing to allow you to break protocol on occasion, if it will make your stay here easier.”

Keith's eyes widen and his ears perk up.

“I will expect a level of professionalism from you at all times, but I am willing to allow you to continue addressing me in a more lax way, as long as we are alone.” Zarkon tilts his head, the corners of his lips quirking up. “It might raise some unwanted questions if I were to publicly allow you liberties so soon after what you did on the Arena.”

Keith snorts. “Yeah, I can see how that might be interpreted wrong.”

Zarkon inclines his head. “Then it is settled?”

Keith smiles and nods, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He turns the rag in his hands, noticing the dryness of it. He glances around, but the bottle of liquid soap isn't anywhere near him and he can’t remember where he left the bottle. It takes him a moment to spot the soap on the shelf behind Zarkon, and he wonders if it would be okay of him to ask Zarkon to get it for him.

“I would like you to answer a question,” Zarkon states and Keith shifts his attention from the soap to him. “Where did you acquire your combat skills?”

Keith sighs, unsure of how to explain it to Zarkon without inviting furter questions. “I was in a military school of sorts. I excelled at the combat training, and I’ve gotten tutoring on swords and such.”

Zarkon's eyes widen minutely. “You were in the military?”

Keith nods. “Pilot program. I was on the top of my class. I was just a cadet but I was more or less confirmed to get a spot in the space program as soon as I graduated. I got kicked out before that happened — I don't want to talk about it.”

Zarkon closes his mouth and inclines his head in understanding. “At least now I understand how you could take on a Galra commander.”

“I don't think Yazrik expected me to be able to even touch him, so that helped,” Keith replies as he takes a step down the ladder.

“That is true,” Zarkon agrees. “Though your swift method of taking a commander down might lead to my future suitors to challenging you just to prove their superiority over you, even if you are not courting me.”

“So, what? You expect me to fight off your future suitors?” Keith cringes at his words and takes another step down the ladder. His foot slips and his arms flail as he tries to regain his balance to no avail. He'd crash to the ground if Zarkon wasn't there to catch him.

Keith blinks up at Zarkon, shocked by their sudden closeness and Zarkon's arms around his waist keeping him from falling. Keith bites his lip and looks away. Zarkon helps him to the ground and Keith hurries to the soap on the shelf behind Zarkon.

Keith moves the ladder to the next section of the bookshelf when returns to it with the now damp rag. He works quickly to get the lower shelves dusted before climbing up the ladder. Zarkon lifts his arm to catch Keith in case he stumbles again, even though it's hardly needed. Keith rolls his eyes, and Zarkon smiles at him.

The sound of the door opening catches their attention and they turn to see Ezil standing in the doorway, surprise evident on her face. She clears her throat and bows. “The Council is waiting for you, Sire.”

“Inform them that I will join them shortly,” Zarkon replies. Ezil bows her head and — with a one last glance at Keith and Zarkon — walks out of the room.

Zarkon turns to Keith. “I must go now. It would appear I have an empire to run.”

Keith huffs a quiet laugh before fixing a more serious expression on his face and bowing a little too deeply. “Of course, my Lord.”

Zarkon smiles, exasperated and amused, and shakes his head minutely as he turns and heads to the door. Keith watches him go, a smile playing on his lips. Zarkon stops at the doors and turns to glance at Keith, his eyes widening when he finds Keith staring after him.

For a moment, neither one of them moves, then Zarkon opens the door and hurries out of the room.

Keith sighs and returns to dusting the shelves. He doesn't understand how Zarkon could turn into what he will be in the future. It makes no sense, and Keith's heart breaks at the thought that Zarkon will be heading down that road sooner or later, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it.

Keith stills. _He_ can stop it.

The future would be better off if Keith stops Zarkon from entering the rift and taking over the universe. Sure, Keith's reality would never exist so he can't go back there, but to Keith that's an acceptable price to pay for saving billions of lives, including Zarkon’s.

Keith dusts the shelves with new found determination. He doesn't know how, but he's going to save Zarkon and everyone that ever got hurt because he entered the rift.

He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is coming around 28th.
> 
> I hope you liked this!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't say around which 28th I'd be updating this!!

Keith and Zarkon develop a game of sorts from interacting without anyone seeing them. Keith has had to pretend he dropped a rag before he could greet Zarkon because another servant walked around the corner right when Keith was about to greet Zarkon. Once Zarkon walked by Keith while Keith was getting instructed by Ezil without acknowledging either of them, but he trailed back to Keith after Ezil left just to ask how Keith was doing, and Keith had laughed softly and smiled for the rest of the day.

It goes on for weeks and Keith grows to expect those brief moments where he gets to say hi to Zarkon, or Zarkon spares him a small smile while he walks past Keith and they're not alone.

Keith drags the sponge across the lowest step of the stairs in the entrance hall, lost in thought. He hasn't seen Zarkon yet, and as the day draws near evening he begins to suspect this will be one of the rare days they don't cross paths. The thought shouldn’t bother him as much as it does.

“I think you forgot that spot.”

Keith starts and swirls around, coming face to face with Blaytz of all people. Blaytz tilts his head. “Don't you think?”

Keith glances at the shining spot on the stairs where he'd laid the polishing wax just a little too thick and groans.

“I'd fix that before Zarkon steps on it and breaks his neck,” Blaytz says, his tone conversational. Keith nods and gets the rag from his tool basket, then scrubs the wax off quickly before it sets. Blaytz meanders to lean on the rails of the stairs, observing Keith with mild interest.

“Are you here for the Solstice Celebration?” Keith asks to fill the silence. “Sire?”

Blaytz grimaces. “You don't need to do that with me. And yes, I'm here for the celebration — the day event at least.”

Keith raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask. Blaytz still shrugs and crosses his arms. “We were at war some years ago, remember? I'm better off not being around an excited mass of drunk Galra. It's not the official reason I'm going to slink away come sundown, but it's the truth.”

Satisfied that he's got the excess wax off, Keith tosses the rag back into the basket. “What's the official reason, then? If I may ask.”

Blaytz glances around before stepping closer to Keith. “We were at a similar event on one of Altea's trade partner planets. I really liked the snacks they were serving but they had the unfortunate side effect of drying me out. My people are semi-aquatic so we don't deal well with drying out, and I kind of panicked and jumped into the nearest body of water I saw, which turned out to be a sacred fountain. The locals understood why I did it so there was no harm done, but Zarkon likes to hold it over my head.”

Keith doesn't know how to answer that, and to his relief Alfor arrives with Lurana at that moment to distract him and Blaytz. They greet Blaytz first, then offer Keith a hello as well. Keith returns the greeting as he picks up the sponge he'd discarded earlier and gets back to work.

“Are you coming to the Solstice Celebration?” Lurana asks Keith.

“As long as I get all my tasks completed before it,” Keith replies and offers her a polite smile.

“Well, we'd better leave you to it, then,” Alfor says and smiles at Keith before ushering Lurana and Blaytz away.

Keith watches them climb the just waxed stairs before getting back to getting the last step waxed as well.

 

* * *

 

The Solstice Celebration draws a large crowd during the day though the official celebration is held in the evening, and by the time the sun sets the marketplace of the Citadel is packed with excited people.

Keith hadn't been able to stop by the marketplace during the day, and though he would have liked to see the whole event unfold he's happy to have the chance to spend the entire night out if he so wishes — as long as he stays by Ezil's side, that is. She doesn't trust him alone among the Galra after what happened on the Arena, and since Ravik had failed to stop Keith from fighting Yazrik she deemed him unsuitable to watch after Keith.

Keith doesn't mind that much; he’s happy as long as he gets to attend the celebration, though accompanying Ezil comes with the somewhat unfortunate task of accompanying Zarkon as well, as Ezil trails after him all evening. Despite it all Keith gets to enjoy everything and Ezil proves to be an excellent guide. She explains all the minute intricacies of the event to Keith, as well as what's in the drinks and food being served.

“Avoid getting too inebriated,” Ezil advises Keith, “we are accompanying the Emperor, after all.”

Keith nods. He has no intention to get drunk anyways since he doesn't want to miss anything.

At Ravik's instructions, Keith has changed his uniform to the clothes he'd been provided — a black, long sleeved and high collared shirt, a dark, bluish gray coat with deep red detailing and a cut that reminds Keith of the armor the military personnel wear, save for the tails his coat has and the armor lacks, as well as black pants and knee high boots that are surprisingly comfortable to walk in.

Even Ezil has changed her typical work attire to what Keith thinks is an official uniform, going by the detailing and the expensive look of it.

Ezil helps Keith buy a bag of sugary treats and a bitter, pink cider like drink and she lets Keith take his time looking around, as long as they stay within visual range of Zarkon.

Zarkon — in his deep red and gold clothing with too many layers and a black cape that drags on the ground behind him — isn't hurrying anywhere, so Keith has ample time to enjoy the celebration. Children keep running up to Zarkon just to say hello, and Keith spends a solid minute just grinning at the sight of Zarkon leaning down to greet the children before their parents come running in to scoop them away.

Alfor and Lurana are there by Zarkon's side as well, dressed in striking white and light shades of gold and blue that stand out among the darker and stronger shades the Galra favor.

The atmosphere is elated and cordial with laughter and chatter carrying over the music, and the air is filled with a scent like grilled vegetables and chicken and something like vanilla fudge. Keith gets shoved by a passing Galra — the sea of people making it hard for anyone but Zarkon to move around without bumping into each other — and he almost spills his drink on Ezil's back.

Keith loves it. He's never been to an event quite like it, and the joyous energy is hard to not get swept up with. He bothers Ezil with questions about everything and she answers him patiently each and every time.

“That looks like a bonfire,” Keith says, pointing at the large pile of wood in the middle of the marketplace.

“It is a bonfire,” Ezil replies, “it will be lit when the day ends to bring forth the new season with warmth and burn away the troubles of the passing one.”

Keith nods and takes a sip of his drink.

Eventually Zarkon and his entourage stop near the bonfire, at an ideal spot to enjoy it once it’s lit. Ezil guides Keith near them but keeping enough distance between them so they don't properly join Zarkon's company.

Keith observes Zarkon from the corner of his eye and the easy enjoyment Zarkon gets from being around his people only reinforces Keith's decision to change the future. He can't let these people suffer the way they will if history takes its original course.

The sky darkens as the sun slowly sets, and the families usher their younger children back home. Keith spots some of the older children taking advantage of their parents being gone. As Keith observes the children bolting around, he notices a curious pattern of the adults — regardless if they know the children or not — keep them in line.

Keith asks Ezil about it and her expression betrays her bafflement just for a tick. “Raising children is a community effort. Is that not so where you come from?”

Keith shakes his head. “Not really. I mean, we take care of the kids if need be, obviously, but raising them is the job of the family.”

Ezil purses her lips, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to; her disapproval is clear on her face. Keith’s eyes drift to two children being scolded by an elderly woman. He supposes there are benefits to the Galra method of raising children, even if the idea of being surrounded by caring adults is foreign to him.

Half an hour later Ezil leaves Keith’s side to get herself something to eat. She orders Keith to stay near Zarkon while she’s gone and Keith nods, having no problem with spending a few minutes alone. It doesn’t take long for Alfor’s eyes to meet Keith’s and he smiles, nodding his head slightly. Keith does the same, and after a moment Alfor waves Keith closer. Keith hesitates, but Alfor smiles encouragingly at him so Keith inches closer to him.

Alfor steps away from Lurana and leans towards Keith, his voice hushed when he speaks. “Good job on beating Yazrik.”

Keith grimaces. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Alfor shakes his head. “It was for the best; Yazrik isn’t someone suited for Zarkon.”

Keith shrugs. “I’d rather not talk about the whole thing.”

“I understand,” Alfor replies as he takes Keith’s arm and pulls him to join him and Lurana.

“Hello.” Lurana smiles at Keith briefly before focusing on the bonfire again. The staff of the event has started to work around it, and Keith can’t wait to see it be lighted up, trusting it to be a spectacular sight. Keith glances around at the people gathering around the bonfire; the desert night is turning cold, but the fire will keep everyone in the near vicinity warm and the Galra know it.

Ezil clears her throat behind Keith’s back and Keith swirls around to face her disapproving expression.

“I asked him to join us,” Alfor says as he turns to Ezil.

The corners of Ezil’s mouth turn down and it takes her a second too long to minutely incline her head. “Alright.”

She turns and marches towards Zarkon, her back straight and her shoulders stiff, and Keith swallows around the lump in his throat.

“She’s not particularly fond of me,” Alfor tells Keith, as if it’s supposed to put Keith’s mind at ease.

Keith watches Ezil bow at Zarkon before saying something to him. Zarkon glances over his shoulder, his eyes briefly meeting Keith’s before he returns his attention to Ezil. They talk, Ezil bows, and Zarkon turns back to the children that have flocked near him.

Keith smiles without thinking.

“The children like him,” Lurana observes.

“At least we know who to ask to babysit if we ever need it,” Alfor replies.

Keith bites back a laugh at the idea of Zarkon babysitting Allura. Even if Zarkon isn’t evil yet — and he’ll never be if Keith has anything to say about it — the idea of him looking after Allura is amusing.

Keith’s smile falls when a realization strikes him; he’s most likely going to see Allura as a baby. He might see Allura grow up and learn to walk and talk, and become the person she was when Keith first met her.

Alfor touches Keith’s arm. “The bonfire is going to be hot and it’ll burn for vargas. Lurana and I will stop by the Castleship to avoid the worst of the heat and if you want, you can join us.”

Keith nods. “I’d like that.”

Half an hour later the bonfire is set ablaze and soon the heat of the fire starts warming the air.

Another half an hour later Alfor goes to tell Zarkon he’s taking Keith to the Castleship.

 

* * *

 

The staff of the Castleship has prepared a late dinner for them, and Keith does his best to put forth his best table manners.

The food consists of grilled vegetables and sticky cheese, and a sweet sauce of some kind. Keith likes it, even if he’d personally gone with less spices.

“Can I ask you something?” Alfor glances at Keith, his voice and expression politely pleasant.

“Sure,” Keith replies, even though he might end up regretting it.

“Where did you learn to fight so well?”

Keith buys himself some time by shoving an especially sticky piece of cheese into his mouth. “Like I told Zarkon, I was in the military.”

Alfor smiles. “I know what you told Zarkon, I want to know the truth.”

“Alfor.” Lurana’s voice holds a hint of warning.

Alfor lifts a hand without taking his eyes off Keith. “I’m just curious. Zarkon is my closest friend and the only people who are able to take him on are Blaytz and the head of his Guard. Now, if it was just the one time I’d let it go as Zarkon having had a glass too much wine and not expecting you to know how to throw a punch, but you beat a commander of the Galra Military. I know for a fact that the Galra have the best military in the known universe; their personnel is trained better than anyone else, especially in combat.”

Keith bites his tongue, considering his answer. “With all due respect, that’s not any of your business,” he ends up saying, even if it might get him into trouble.

Alfor blinks, surprised, an incredulous smile creeping onto his lips. “I hope you don’t talk to Zarkon like that.”

Keith sets his utensils down. “Well, he’s my employer on top of being my Emperor, you are neither.” Keith tilts his head. “And how I talk to Zarkon is between me and him.”

Lurana smiles at Keith from behind her glass while Alfor stares at him, the smile having disappeared from his face.

Keith stares at his plate, fearing he’s done something wrong again.

“Well,” Alfor starts, “I suppose it is.”

Keith suppresses a wince at the cool edge of Alfor’s voice.

“I haven’t heard Zarkon complain,” Lurana says, offering Keith a reassuring look. “And you know he makes his displeasure known,” she adds, directing her words at Alfor.

They lapse into a somewhat awkward silence during which they finish their dinner and a servant brings them dessert — bowls of pink citrus sorbet, or what passes for sorbet.

Keith considers the benefits of apologizing to Alfor, but he’s unsure of how to approach the subject; apologizing might be too forward and bringing up the subject again could lead to a fight — though a fight with Alfor would most likely involve a lot more disapprovingly polite conversation than yelling or insults.

“The Emperor requests your presence,” Coran says, making Keith jump a little, having entered the room too quietly for Keith to hear him.

Alfor sets his spoon down. “Alright. Let him know we’ll be there shortly.”

Coran nods and leaves the dining room. Keith finishes his sorbet in record time, his palate freezing by the time his bowl is empty.

Once they’re all ready Alfor leads them back to Zarkon. The air has grown colder, but the bonfire warms its nearby area nicely.

Keith scans the crowds for Ezil, but he can’t see her anywhere. Keith stays near Zarkon — in case Ezil comes looking for him later — and listens to Alfor and Zarkon chat quietly, not truly focusing on their words.

“Don’t take it personally,” Lurana says.

Keith’s eyes snap to her. “What?”

She nudges her head towards Alfor. “He’s used to getting his way and to people not keeping things from him. Give him time and he’ll adjust and accept that you’re one of the few people who talk back to him.”

Keith tries to smile, but it’s too forced so he stops. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Lurana nods and focuses her gaze on the bonfire, but she remains by Keith’s side.

A trio of Galra approach the bonfire and Keith focuses his gaze from the crowd to them, watching them pull burning bits of wood from the bonfire with long hooks and drawing them to the simmering circle of coal that now surrounds the bonfire. The wood ignites the coal, the fire quickly spreading around until the circle is burning.

Keith’s eyes aren’t focused on that, though, he’s noticed the fresh blood on the sand near the bonfire.

Lurana follows Keith’s line of sight and leans down to whisper in his ear. “They killed a Kaaba — a large farm animal — earlier. Once the fire simmers down they’ll roast the carcass.”

Keith nods slowly. Sacrificial animals make sense, all things considered.

After a moment Alfor joins them, wrapping his arm around Lurana’s waist and nodding at Keith. “Zarkon thinks we should go get drinks after the dance.”

“That sounds nice,” Lurana replies.

“What dance?” Keith asks.

Alfor doesn’t quite grimace, but it’s close. “An old tradition, according to Zarkon; the druids of the Ashlands come down from their monastery to dance for the ancient gods. If they don’t get injured or burn themselves it’ll mean the year will be good and no one will starve.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Why would they get hurt?”

Alfor nods towards the bonfire. “That coal circle? That’s where the dance is performed, while the coal is on fire and the bits of wood are still there for them to step on.”

Keith frowns, but he doesn’t say anything; he’ll share his opinion after he’s seen the dance itself if he feels the need to do so. He’s curious about the druids — the term reminds him of the druid of the Empire — and whether or not they have any relation to the ones in the future.

The future that will not come to pass, if Keith succeeds in his attempts to change the past.

Alfor returns to Zarkon’s side, and after a few minutes he waves Lurana and Keith to join them too. Keith goes with mild trepidation slowly filling his insides.

Keith stands a little away from the others while they chat, waiting for the dance to begin. He doesn’t have to wait for long; the crowd makes way for the druids to walk by, and the four of them take their places around the coal circle after shedding their cloaks and accepting the metallic looking staffs from the staff maintaining the fire.

They are dressed in fiery reds and deep purples, their clothes light and skin tight; sleeveless shirts that show their middle and a golden, thick hoop going through the top of their shirts and around their necks; their skirts reaching just midway down their thighs, a thin, black leather straps traveling from the skirts, looping around their middles a few times before connecting to their shirts. They aren’t wearing any shoes, but their ankles and wrists are decorated with thick, heavy looking golden bracelets. Even their ears have heavy earrings hanging from them.

But it’s not their clothing that catches Keith’s attention — or even the intricate markings painted on their skin; it’s their appearance. They look more like Zarkon than any Galra Keith has ever seen; the same unusual, almost exoskeleton like plating on their heads and the same leathery skin, though these druids are more lizard like in their appearance than Zarkon.

They’re lithe and tall, and Keith’s eyes dart from them to Zarkon, trying to be subtle and failing if the exasperated look Zarkon spares him is anything to go by. Keith looks down and bites his lip.

It doesn’t take long for the druids to step onto the burning coals, the flames licking at their legs and reaching nearly their knees.

Keith lets out a soft noise, catching Zarkon’s attention. He excuses himself to Alfor and comes to Keith, leaning down to give them both a sense of privacy.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Keith asks, careful to his voice hushed.

Zarkon glances at the druids and their rather beautiful dance, even with the fire licking at their skin. “They have coated themselves in a protective oil, so the fire or the heat do not harm them. You need not worry; the performance is purely ceremonial.”

Keith nods and focuses on the bonfire and the careful, beautiful dance of the druids. The ends of their staffs have been set aflame by the bonfire, their fast movements creating lines of bright light in the air.

Eventually the dance ends, and Keith blinks, his focus dragging from the druids back to Zarkon still standing by his side. He starts a little when he meets Zarkon’s eyes still focused on him. “Would you like to join us for a drink?” Zarkon asks softly, almost like he doesn’t want Keith to hear the words.

Keith swallows and nods, a smile playing on his lips. “I’d love to.”

“Then we shall leave now, before they roast the Kaaba and the feast begins.” Zarkon turns his attention to Alfor who is already studying them closely. He tilts his head, prompting Alfor to pull Lurana to them.

Zarkon leads them back into the Palace, chatting with Alfor about some political thing while they walk.

Blaytz joins them in Zarkon’s private sitting room. He looks damp, like he’d just come out of a shower and hadn’t bothered to dry himself properly, and he grins at Keith before stepping past him to take the last free chair, forcing Keith to sit on the couch by Zarkon’s side.

Zarkon pours Keith a tall glass of deep red wine and Keith sips slowly it while the others talk. The alcohol affects them all at different rates — Blaytz faster than anyone, with Zarkon being a close second, though that might be just because he drinks faster than the others.

“I think I’ll retire for the night,” Lurana says an hour or so later and Alfor stands up after her.

“I think Ezil arranged a room for you down the hall,” Zarkon says, “so that you do not have to trek back to the Castleship.”

Lurana bows her head. “Thank you.”

Alfor walks Lurana out of the room, leaving Keith with Zarkon and Blaytz for company.

“He’s too sober,” Blaytz complains and waves his hand in Keith’s direction. “Can’t you order him to drink faster?”

“No,” Zarkon says, smiling at his wine. “You might try to bed him, and he would be too drunk to realize the mistake he is about to make.”

Keith starts, nearly spilling his wine. “I’d never do that.”

“So you say,” Zarkon replies, “but he is rather talented at getting people into his bed when he so desires.”

“Not him, though,” Blaytz cuts in and waves at Zarkon. It sounds like a friendly joke more than anything, especially with the grin tugging at Blaytz’s lips.

Zarkon sits straighter. “I have standards.”

It makes Keith chuckle and Blaytz laugh, and if the small smile Zarkon tries to hide behind his glass of wine is anything to go by it’s exactly what he wanted.

“Sorry to ruin the moment but I gotta ask — “ Blaytz pauses for long enough to make sure he has Zarkon’s attention “ — what’s going on with Alfor’s plan?”

Zarkon sighs and spares a glance at Keith, his shoulders slumping. “He is still negotiating. It is not a secret.”

Keith pretends to be focused on nothing but his wine, even if he’s listening to every word.

Blaytz is quiet for a moment, but Keith can feel his eyes on him, assessing his trustworthiness.

“Keith.” Zarkon’s voice is kind enough for Keith to not flinch when he looks up. “Would you — “

“It’s fine,” Blaytz cuts in, waving his hand. “I’m not interested in talking state secrets and I trust you’re not letting him stick around just because you have a thing for him.”

Keith almost chokes on his wine.

“I do not have ‘a thing’ for anyone.” Zarkon frowns at Blaytz who smiles and spreads his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“Whatever you say.” Blaytz’s smile widens when Zarkon’s frown deepens, and he takes a sip of his wine. “I was wondering if you’re still helping Alfor.”

“On occasion,” Zarkon replies, a hint of tenseness lingering in his voice.

Blaytz’s brow raises. “I still can’t believe you let him drag you along to all those peace talks.”

“I rest comfortably in the knowledge that should I so desire, I could destroy you all and rule the universe,” Zarkon replies, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Blaytz snorts, but Keith stills, a chill running down his spine. Keith’s eyes are glued to his glass and the wine slowly swirling in it, Blaytz’s voice growing more distant as seconds pass, his own heartbeat drowning all other sounds out.

It’s not until Alfor joins them — hours or seconds later, Keith isn’t sure — that the world rushes back into focus. No one’s paying attention to Keith, and Keith downs the last of his wine to calm himself down before anyone notices his reaction. The last thing Keith needs is for anyone to start questioning him about his past again.

“What are we talking about?” Alfor asks as he sits back down.

Blaytz shrugs. “Zarkon here thinks he could destroy us all and take over the universe.”

Keith grits his teeth even as Alfor laughs softly. “It’s a good thing we’re advanced enough to stop you before you could take over the first planet.”

Zarkon’s ears tilt back just a fraction, but it’s enough to make Keith tense again. “I could just take you out first.”

Keith refills his glass and gulps down the wine while Alfor pretends to think about it.

“You could,” Alfor says eventually, “but I’m afraid Galran tenacity isn’t going to be enough to take on Altea. We are technologically light years ahead of you so you’re not much of a threat to us. No offence.”

Zarkon grits his teeth and Keith considers the possibility of running before Zarkon murders Alfor then and there.

Zarkon sets his glass down on the table and Keith shrinks into himself. “I think I’ll retire for the night.”

Blaytz tilts his head. “You do that. You’re starting to talk like a commoner and that’s never a good sign.” His voice is light, but there’s something forced about it.

Keith’s eyes are firmly fixed on his lap and Alfor remains silent while Zarkon stands. Zarkon strides out of the door, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Keith risks a glance at Alfor and Blaytz, his eyes widening when he finds Blaytz scowling at Alfor who seems more interested in the contents of his glass than anything else.

“You know what he’s like,” Blaytz says, his voice hard.

Alfor looks up, a tense smile on his face, and directs his gaze to Keith. “Go make sure your Emperor doesn’t fall asleep on a couch. We wouldn’t want him to be hungover as well as cranky over crumbled clothes and a sore neck in the morning.”

Keith takes the hint to leave Blaytz and Alfor alone and hurries after Zarkon.

 

* * *

 

It should not surprise Zarkon that Keith shows up in his private rooms mere ticks after Zarkon has slumped on his couch with a glass of his strongest liquor.

“I do not require your presence,” he states, trying his hardest to not let his frustration at Alfor color his voice. There is no point in taking his foul mood out on Keith who has done nothing to deserve it.

But Keith does not leave. He walks up to Zarkon, twisting his hands and chewing his lip, gripping the hem of his coat when he comes to a halt before Zarkon. “I just thought I’d make sure you don’t need anything?”

Zarkon raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Did Alfor send you?”

Keith’s ears draw back and he doesn’t meet Zarkon’s eyes. “Yes. He thought you might need help.”

Zarkon sighs, too exhausted to deal with Keith at the moment. “I do not need help.”

Keith crosses his arms and looks down, taking one shuffling step towards Zarkon. “Just company then? I don’t feel like going back to the sitting room to listen to Alfor and Blaytz argue and I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to be alone just yet.”

Zarkon does not care for company, but there’s something in Keith’s voice — in his too big eyes — that silences Zarkon. He lets out a heavy breath and waves Keith to take a seat. To Zarkon’s surprise Keith joins him on the couch.

Keith sits straight, too tense and uneasy, and Zarkon does not know what to do about it, or even what has caused it. Zarkon sips his drink to buy himself a moment, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say, but his thoughts are muddied and the room is swaying slightly, and try as he might he cannot come up with anything to say.

“Maybe you should give that to me.” Keith reaches for Zarkon’s glass.

Zarkon clings to the glass just a little bit tighter and Keith draws back, a minute frown appearing on his face. It almost makes Zarkon hand the glass to him.

“Alfor is — “ Zarkon nearly spills the liquor in his hurry to turn to face Keith “ — he is a friend. I don’t — do not want you to doubt that.”

Keith nods his head slowly, chewing his lip. It is distracting enough for Zarkon to ignore the passing ticks of silence. “But?”

Zarkon sighs. “But he has an ego too large for his own good. He thinks that because his people are more advanced, they are better.”

Keith nods again, shifting in his seat.

Zarkon leans forward before thinking better of it and drawing back again. “Just because we can’t — cannot — create wormholes and we do not have their medical technology does not make us lesser.”

“Of course not,” Keith agrees.

Zarkon inclines his head. “Alfor does not see it that way.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Keith replies, drawing a surprised laugh from Zarkon. Keith smiles and bites his lip again, as if trying to keep himself quiet.

Zarkon frown and — without thinking of what he is doing — presses his thumb against Keith’s lower lip and pulls it out of his mouth. He does not miss the way Keith’s eyes widen, or the way his mouth hangs slightly open even though his focus is fixed on Keith’s lip, slightly swollen and wet from being chewed on.

It is not that Zarkon has never been attracted to anyone, or that he has not been sexually active, he has. His mother had even encouraged it. _Get it out of your system before you take the throne_ she had always said, _an Emperor cannot take just anyone to his bed so do as you please while you still can._

But — for some inexplicable and infuriating reason — the urge to bite Keith’s lip strikes Zarkon, and it takes him full three ticks to shake it off and snatch his hand back and look away.

Zarkon downs his the last of his drink before Keith can say anything and hands the glass to him. “I think I’ll — will — I will retire for the night.”

Zarkon stands and stops, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Keith hurries to his feet as well. “I’ll get you some water,” he mutters and circles Zarkon, putting more distance between them than Zarkon thinks necessary.

Too weary to ponder on Keith’s behavior, Zarkon trudges to his bedroom, his steps a little uneasy on the floor that seems tilted somehow, absently stripping his clothes off and lost in thoughts muddied by the exhaustion clinging to his bones and the alcohol in his blood.

He barely remember to put on his night garments — a dark, long, almost skin tight shirt that has a collar that wraps snugly around his throat and sleeves that stop at his shoulders — but after a tick of consideration he leaves the sleeves in the closet. The night is warm so there is no reason for him to worry about getting cold.

Zarkon does take the time to wrap the thin sash around his waist — useless bit of fabric in his opinion, but then again the Emperor is not supposed to dress in practical clothes, even to bed.

By the time Keith returns with the water, Zarkon has already settled in the bed and he’s ready to sleep until morning brings his responsibilities crashing down on him again.

“You really should drink this,” Keith says.

Zarkon narrows his eyes at Keith, but sits up and accepts the glass when Keith hands it to him. He drinks the water slowly under Keith’s watchful eyes, a comment about him not needing to be coddled on the tip of Zarkon’s tongue.

After a moment Keith shifts and tugs at the back of his coat.

“Does it hurt?” Zarkon asks before the thought that it is not truly any of his business crosses his mind. Keith merely frowns, confused for some reason. “Your back,” Zarkon clarifies.

Keith’s expression grows dark. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?”

Keith huffs and looks away. “Because there’s nothing to talk about.”

Zarkon frowns at Keith’s harsh tone. Keith closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then bows. “I’m sorry, I was out of line.”

Zarkon sets the glass on the nightstand, almost spilling what little water remains in it as he does so. Once the glass is securely on the nightstand, he waves Keith closer.

Keith comes, but does so grudgingly. Zarkon sighs and grabs Keith’s arm and pulls him closer. “Sit down,” he orders when Keith is by the bed.

Keith’s eyes widen and flicker down, then back up to Zarkon’s face again. “What?”

“Sit down,” Zarkon repeats, pulling gently at Keith’s arm to let him know he is not making a request.

Slowly, Keith sits on the very edge of the bed, his back too straight and his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“Take your coat off,” Zarkon orders.

Keith swirls around. “Excuse me?”

Zarkon scowls. “Could you just do as you are told for once?”

Keith glares at Zarkon, but after a tick he does take his coat off and drops it on the floor. Zarkon nudges his shoulder until he turns around and tugs the shirt from Keith’s pants. Zarkon gives Keith a moment when he tenses before slowly pulling the back of Keith’s shirt up, revealing the scars covering his back.

Zarkon frowns at the sight. He was aware that Keith had been whipped — he’d seen it happen — but seeing Keith’s back without the blood hiding the damage makes Zarkon want to go back to the Bryx and destroy their compound. He runs his fingers down Keith’s spine, frowning at the way Keith shivers under his touch and the stiffness of his skin.

“You should put oil on this,” Zarkon says, “it would make the scarring softer and it would not bother you so much.”

Keith shakes his head, his shoulders tenses and drawn up.

Zarkon traces an especially deep scar traveling Keith’s down his right shoulder blade and down his left side. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“I don’t — “ Keith draws in a sharp breath, his voice wavering.

Zarkon lets go of his shirt and — on a drunken impulse — rests his chin on Keith’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Keith presses his chin to his chest and shakes his head again, a broken sob escaping his lips.

“Tell me what is wrong,” Zarkon says, nudging Keith’s head with his forehead. “As your Emperor I command you to do as you are told.”

Keith chuckles, the sound of it wet and joyless, but it is something and Zarkon is satisfied with it. “You still can’t order me to tell you things.”

Zarkon tilts his head. “I can if it affects your work performance.”

Keith sniffles and glances at Zarkon, his eyes shining with tears. “I just — I don’t want to think about it.”

“About what?”

Keith motions at his back, swallowing down another sob. Zarkon frowns, unsure of what Keith means at first, but soon realization hits him. “You must deal with what happened to you. It is not healthy to ignore traumatic events.”

“I can’t.” Keith shrugs Zarkon’s chin from his shoulder. “If I stop to think about it even for a second I’ll lose it.”

Zarkon tilts his head — or maybe the room tilts, he cannot be sure — and frowns. He does not know what a second or this _it_ Keith is concerned about losing is, but it is obviously important to Keith and Zarkon can respect that. Zarkon does know, however, that trauma must be dealt with.

“You can’t — can’t not... cannot — ignore it. If you do the memory will fester and rot your mind, and it will cause you nothing but harm in the future,” Zarkon says, hoping his voice sounds reassuring instead of patronizing.

Keith nods. “I know that. I just... I can’t.”

“A counselor can be arranged for you,” Zarkon offers. Keith starts to shake his head, but Zarkon cuts in before he can complete the motion, “you cannot work in the Palace if you do not take care of yourself. It is not healthy for you.”

Keith’s eyes snap to Zarkon, wide and almost scared, but Zarkon refuses to budge. Eventually Keith sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I guess I could meet a counselor.”

Zarkon hums softly and lies down, his head too heavy on his shoulders. “Then it’s settled.”

Zarkon expects Keith to leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat and shifts.

“What?” Zarkon asks, his voice carrying an edge of tiredness that wasn’t there before.

“It’s just that,” Keith starts before stopping to draw in a deep breath. “I think they would’ve killed me if you hadn’t stopped them.”

“I did stop them,” Zarkon reminds Keith.

“But if you hadn’t — “

“But I did, and that is all you need to concern yourself with at the moment,” Zarkon states with an air of finality in his voice.

Keith snaps his mouth shut and nods. Zarkon studies him for a moment before sighing and pulling Keith into his arms. Instead of fighting or even complaining, Keith curls into Zarkon’s arms readily, clinging to Zarkon like he’s the last thing protecting him from the horrors of the endless night of the Void the spirits lost on their way to the Se’oreh Plains are trapped in.

“It’s alright. I saved you,” Zarkon says to fill the silence with something. Keith clings to him a little tighter, his tears dampening the thin fabric of Zarkon’s clothing. Zarkon pets Keith’s hair, waiting for him to get his emotions under control again.

He falls asleep with Keith still in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Zarkon wakes up, finding Keith sound asleep in his arms, and frowns. The room is still dark and there seems to be no reason for him to be awake yet.

Zarkon lifts his head — mindful of Keith — and his frown turns into an eyeroll when he sees Alfor crouched on the floor, undoing the clasps of Keith’s boots with a concentrated pout on his face. It takes Alfor a few ticks to realize he is being watched.

Alfor smiles at Zarkon and pulls the boot from Keith’s foot. “It’s not good for him to sleep with shoes on,” he whispers.

Zarkon has no argument to that, and when Alfor stands and motions for Zarkon to move a bit further from the edge of the bed, he does so. Alfor rearranges Keith’s legs on the bed before pulling the covers on top of him, then he circles the bed and climbs on it, coming to lie on Zarkon’s side under the covers.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Alfor whispers.

Zarkon sighs, but inclines his head a moment later and offers Alfor a brief smile. Alfor returns his smile, scooting up to Zarkon and bridging the little distance between them, resting his head on Zarkon’s shoulder.

“Lurana and I were thinking about pushing the wedding back a year,” Alfor says, his voice quiet enough not to rouse Keith still nestled against Zarkon’s chest.

“Is four years of planning not enough?” Zarkon asks, stifling a yawn.

Alfor shrugs. “It is, but... we just feel it’s better if we wait another year. My parents planned their wedding for seven years.”

Zarkon raises an eyebrow, rubbing soothing circles on Keith’s back when he shifts. “I think it’s — it is ridiculous. If you want to marry her just marry her, everyone knows you two are in love.”

Alfor chuckles, causing Keith to groan softly and shift again. Zarkon holds him closer, petting his hair and running his claws along Keith’s spine until he stills again, his breathing growing slower and deeper.

“Zarkon — “

“Do not” — Zarkon turns to face Alfor — “not now.”

Alfor sighs and nods. Zarkon smiles softly and presses his forehead against Alfor’s, closing his eyes for the moment.

Alfor yawns and settles more comfortably by Zarkon’s side. “Just go back to sleep.”

Zarkon tries to incline his head, but it feels too heavy and all he can manage is a quiet noise of agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting this fic on a temporary hiatus just because the next chapters are a horrible mess and I don't feel like sorting them out, plus getting this chapter out was like pulling teeth. Right now I just want to take my time with this without worrying about updates or anything like that. I'll finish this fic, don't worry! No need to ask about an update because I don't know when I'll even feel like tackling the next chapter and asking me about it is only gonna make me want to not work on it.
> 
> But! I do hope you liked this chapter and bear with me while I find my motivation to get the next chapters sorted out.


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